


For He Is The Humanslayer

by Kateis_Cakeis



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Alteration, Torture, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kateis_Cakeis/pseuds/Kateis_Cakeis
Summary: Jaskier flung himself off a cliff, three bruxa weren't catching him out, oh no.Julian, the son of a Count and Countess finally wakes up, his fever broken. Miraculously recovered from an illness that had surely killed him.Two years later, he meets a witcher, Geralt of Rivia, and everything feels oh so terribly wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 127
Kudos: 1006





	1. All That You Are

Jaskier was fucked. Royally fucked, like a princess locked up in a tower fucked.

He shouldn’t have taken this contract. Should have just continued on through the town. The pay wasn’t good, at all. Certainly not worth his inevitable death. He rolled his eyes at himself, at his dramatics. If he was dying today, he wasn’t dying to five bruxa (gods, _there had been seven_ , the townspeople had been _fools_ , they said there was only one, but no, it had been a large pack).

His Quen had just been broken, and the bruxae were quickly approaching.

He backed up a little further, running around them, and launching himself up off a boulder to gain a little distance on them. One realised quicker than the rest did on where he’d gone, and he dodged her swift dash towards him, slicing his silver sword through her. He used Igni to keep her down.

Well, only four more to go. That was simple, right?

Except he was injured already, a wound at his stomach, a large and gaping hole, dripping with blood. Flooded, really.

Jaskier knew this was likely to be his last fight. And what a life he’d lived. He had nearly reached seventy years of age, which was decent for a witcher considering their line of work. He’d loved and fell out of it just as quickly. He had helped people and stood by the code of his school. To be knightly, even when it was hard to do so.

He readjusted his grip on his silver sword, using Axii in the hope of calming the approaching bruxae. But they were much too strong, and his wound had sapped too much energy from him. It did have an effect, but it was simply not enough to save him.

He cut through one more bruxa before jumping back, narrowly missing another attack. Fuck…

This was it, wasn’t it?

Jaskier was lucky to be in the mountains, as he was nearing a cliff edge. He’d rather not have a group of vampires suck on his corpse, so he sheathed his sword, touched his medallion gently and backed up. Glancing over the edge, he saw it was a large enough fall for the bruxae not to follow.

“Well, it was nice meeting you ladies, but I can’t stay.” He smiled, his last. “I have things to do, places to be, gods to serenade.”

With a grin, he let himself fall back.

\--

Galen had been roaming the mountains for ingredients. Simple plants he was short of to make potions and healing salves with. But then, in the middle of his normal routine, he saw an injured man at the bottom of a cliff. Naturally, the healer in him rushed to the man’s side. He found out rather quickly that the man was a witcher, of the griffin school, and that he was barely alive.

But alive he was.

Galen instantly returned to his hut in the woods, just on the edge of a town. He was known for many things. A healer, a mage who could take great pain away, and a friend to those who needed one. He knew, the second he brought the witcher into his home, that he was risking that very reputation. But he didn’t have a choice. Witchers were a dying breed, and were needed dearly (as much as mere mortal humans would hate to admit it).

He’d set the witcher upon his spare bed, tucked at one end of his hut. The more public part of it. He had his own room, of course, but the rest of his house was open to patients.

He’d put him into a healing sleep, but the witcher’s injuries were grave. Broken bones, mottled bruises (which likely held internal bleeding underneath), and one large hole in his stomach. It was a wonder he’d survive the fall at all, never mind the injury. He was very lucky.

Galen applied a few salves to the main wound, but until it truly started to knit back together, there wasn’t much he could do. He did bandage it up, and left the witcher in soft clothes, wrapped up in a blanket. It was lucky he kept spare clothes around, otherwise the witcher would have to lie naked, as his armour was all bent out of shape, and he hadn’t fallen with a bag at his side. Not even a sword.

Galen was aware that witchers of the griffin school stuck by the same values that knights did, so he had no doubt that the witcher would be grateful for the healing. And for his service, Galen would request nothing. Witchers were too often outcast, even for all the work they did. He just couldn’t work out why the witcher would have flung himself off a cliff.

Did he not want to die to a monster? Perhaps.

Galen went about the rest of his day, crafting potions from his ingredients and keeping an eye on the witcher. He had no doubt it would take a while for him to heal. Witchers were able to survive with a lot of damage, but a wound such as that and falling off a cliff? Well, that usually ended up with a dead witcher.

So, healing would take time.

The following morning, when he checked on the stomach wound, he found it almost completely knitted back together. He applied a salve to it, and carefully fed the witcher a potion. He didn’t make a move to wake yet, but Galen could feel he was close to consciousness. A few more hours was all it would take.

A boy from the town came by to collect the medicines he’d prescribed to people. The boy gave him a coin and Galen handed over the bag of salves and tinctures. The boy went running off, back into the town.

Galen let the day escape him, as no other patients came to him, and no one came bursting into his house to request his help. So he busied himself with the witcher and catching up on some reading.

That was until Count Colart and Countess Isouda entered his house. He knew them, they were well known in this part of the kingdom. The town Galen had settled in was their land, and they helped the place flourish greatly.

“Galen, you have been a service to our town for many years. Now, can you help us?”

Galen stood, nodding. “What can I help you with? You both look in good health.”

“Our son,” Colart began, tears choking his voice, “died... three days ago. It was quite sudden, he was ill, and then...”

Isouda bowed her head. “Dear Galen, will you help us rid ourselves of this pain?”

Galen was already walking up to his cabinet full of potions. “Absolutely. The potion won’t remove the memory, but it will ease your grief, making the air more breathable, allowing you to move past the worst of it.” He unlocked the cabinet and grabbed two vials of the stuff. “I won’t make you pay for it. Grief is a terrible thing, and losing a child...”

Colart gasped, and Galen noticed he’d paced towards the bed. Where the witcher lay. For a moment, it was as if Colart recognised him. But... he seemed too shocked, almost. Tears flooded his face before Galen had any time to process it. Isouda was at his side, hands sliding up to his shoulders.

“That man... Who is he?” Colart whispered.

“He’s a witcher, of the griffin school. I found him yesterday, he was inches from death.” Galen approached him slowly. “Do you know him?”

“No... He just...”

“He looks like our son,” Isouda explained.

“Can you replace his memories? Could you give him to us? Make him believe he’s ours?” Colart asked, eyes wide and frantic with grief.

Galen placed the potions down, moving to stand in front of two people who were no more than grieving parents right now. “I can, but I won’t. He’s a witcher. He belongs on the road, helping people by ridding them of their monsters. He is not a viscount, and he is not your son.”

“We’ll take him,” Isouda said, as if it were her decision to make. “We’ll pay you, whatever you want. You’ll always be welcome in our town, and we will send the best food your way. Give you a steady wage. Just... please. He could be our son.”

Galen frowned. “He will never be your son, Count and Countess, he will always be a witcher. Even if I insert memories that make him believe he is yours, they will be false and will always feel wrong to him, like he was missing something. He _will_ retain his old memories, I can’t get rid of them, only repress them. Something could easily trigger his true memories, and they will be clearer than any I could insert. Then, you’ll be stuck with an angry witcher, who is confused about who he is. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” Colart said without hesitation. “This is our second chance. It would be like having our son back, we have to take that chance.”

He was weak... Being welcomed into the town would be better than living on the outskirts, and if he did this, the Count and Countess had a high chance of employing him directly. A steady wage, food... “I’ll do it, on one condition.” (He had to keep his morals somehow.)

“Whatever it is, we’ll honour it.”

“Right. Then, tell me the moment he shows signs of remembering who he once was.” Galen lifted his chin, almost defiantly. “I will give him a choice. Either, he can continue being your son, or he can rid himself of the memories I’m about to implant in his brain and be a witcher again.”

Isouda took a steadying breath. “If those are your terms, we will abide by them.” She sighed, looking down. “After all, he is not our son...”

“Okay.” Galen turned and stepped towards the bed, placing his hand at the witcher’s forehead. “I need you to join hands.” They did so, moving beside him. Galen reached up and touched his fingers against Colart’s temple. “This might tickle.”

Of course, he neglected to mention that halfway through the process the subject would begin to scream, and when the witcher did so, the Count and Countess barely flinched, possibly because they were so set on him being their son.

Galen breathed hard after the process was done, his energy had been sapped from him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Colart smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He could have been our son, the way he looks. So similar, so like him.”

Isouda nodded vehemently. “Looks as if he’s related. As similar as your grandfather, Colart.”

Colart hummed, stroking his fingers through the witcher’s hair. “What a wonderful twist of fate.”

Galen raised his eyebrow at the implication of what they’d said, but kept quiet. Whatever this fate was... it wasn’t wonderful.

\--

Julian woke to his mother and father standing at his bed. He furrowed his brow. Last he remembered he... Well, he’d been sick, very sick. In so much pain that when he’d last closed his eyes, he thought that would have been it. Except... he was still in his room. Awake and alive.

“Mother...?” he said, voice rough from being unused.

His mother sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at him. “It’s okay, Julian. You’re well again. A mage helped us heal you.”

Julian furrowed his brow. That didn’t... seem right. “I’m glad I’m not dead.”

“Will you make a poem about it, son?” his father asked. “We’ve had second thoughts on your dream to become a poet. We’re more than happy for you to go to Oxenfurt this summer.”

Julian nearly launched himself out of bed. “Really?” He’d been playing the lute since he was a child, a hobby that had become serious. The first time he’d played, he’d been up in the mountains– No, that wasn’t right. He had been... in the manor. He furrowed his brow, why did he feel so... wrong?

He shook it off, it was clearly the lingering effects of the illness and whatever the mage had done to him.

“Really,” his mother murmured with such compassion. “We’re sorry we’ve been so harsh on you, but nearly losing you made us realise that what makes you happy is all we need.”

He understood their change of heart, but he wished it hadn’t been his near death that caused it. “Thank you. I will not disappoint. I’ll bring great fame to our family with my writings.”

Little did they know of his true dream. To become a travelling bard. Once he was at Oxenfurt, and once he had his degree, he would go off, without a word nor care, and become who he was meant to be. What he had always dreamed of, sitting in the hills with his lute in his lap, with others around him like Coën and...

He didn’t know a Coën.

He shut his eyes, lying back, must have come from a fever dream. His memories getting muddled by something that wasn’t real. The mind could do strange things on the inch of death, like scrambling memories, and creating people he never knew.

“Rest well, Julian. We’ll talk in the morning,” his mother murmured, her hand gently stroking his hair behind his ear.

\--

Julian picked up his lute and drew in a breath. This was his first time performing outside the manor, in front of people who weren’t servants or his parents. He closed his eyes and strummed the first few notes, allowing his nervousness to fuel his confidence. He knew this song, like the back of his hand, and he knew how to play. That was all people needed. Especially in Oxenfurt. His professors thought he was good at least.

The melody was almost haunting, before he began to sing, his voice deep.

“Vipers snap at your feet,  
Their blades short,  
As deadly as the deep.

Cats were vicious,  
Sanity clawed away,  
Their inventors far too ambitious.

The bears were alone,  
More than the others,  
Bloodshed was sure to be born.

Griffins were prepared to fight,  
Utilised magic to survive,  
As rule bound as any knight.

Wolves were respected for their strength,  
Till their keep was ravaged,  
Leaving the survivors isolated, at arm’s length.

Oh the animals, as strong as they were,  
They were doomed,  
Doomed from the start.”

The tavern was left in an eerie stare. Like he’d sung a song of death. He slung his lute on his shoulder, staring back. He didn’t know where the inspiration for the song came from, or what it was about. But it seemed right, like he knew the information deep in his mind somewhere.

One woman stood up, clapping. “My, my, I haven’t heard a voice carry like that before.”

“The song was horrifying but brilliant!” another called out.

“Was it about witchers?” an older man asked, and from the way he was dressed, Julian would guess he was a professor. “Those are all the schools we know of.”

He supposed it did make sense, but for the life of him, he didn’t know where that knowledge came from. “I suppose it is.”

The professor stood taller. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Jaskier.” He inhaled sharply. _What_? His name wasn’t... But it was, he knew it was. Julian was his given name, but Jaskier was the name he chose. The name he would always choose. No matter where he was in the world, or what court he dreamed to play in, he would always be Jaskier. And yet... before he had said it, the name had never popped into his mind. He knew he’d chosen it, he just didn’t know when.

Perhaps it had come from a dream.

Maybe it was destiny.

“Well then, Jaskier, you’ve certainly read a lot to gleam so much knowledge of the witcher schools. Tell me,” He stepped up close, smiling, “have you ever thought of doing history?”

“No, sir. I’m just a poet. The song came to me and I couldn’t do anything but write it.”

The professor smiled. “Then I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully with your poetry.” He clapped him on the back. “I look forward to hearing more of your songs.”

“Thank you...”

“The world is waiting for a travelling bard like yourself. Wow them.”

Jaskier smiled. (Why had he gotten used to that name so fast, why did it feel right?) “I’ll do my upmost best to become the most renowned bard of the Continent.”

“Good luck then.” And the professor was turning away, leaving quickly.

Jaskier furrowed his brow, but let the whole thing slide. “Who wants to hear a classic jig?!” he shouted out.

The tavern replied with a cheer, and Jaskier got much needed practice with performing in public.

\--

“I’m so glad that I could bring you all together like this!” Jaskier complained as he dodged the bread. He placed his lute down, not even hesitating to pile the pieces of food into his pants. He was hungry and his controversial songs never brought him much coin, but they entertained _him_ at least. The inspiration had come to him, and he’d written down. Too bad so many people hated abortion so much.

He looked up to find the most glorious man sitting in a corner of the tavern, silent. He hadn’t complained at Jaskier’s singing at least, which must have meant he didn’t hate it... Well, it was worth a try. To try what? Jaskier didn’t quite know. He’d be a good lay, he knew that much just by looking at him. But he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted. Not right now at least. No, he was curious if anything.

He stole a drink on his way, hoping to be more natural as he came to a stop by the man’s table. “I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

The man turned his head away. “I’m here to drink alone.”

“Good, yeah, good.” He paused for a millisecond, glancing down. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except, for you. Come _on_... You don’t want to keep a man with…” Was he really going to say what he was going to say? Yes, yes he was, “bread in his pants waiting.” He quickly covered _that_ up by moving to sit down, saying, “You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

The man stared at him for a long moment. “They don’t exist.”

“ _What_ … don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.”

“And how would you know?” _Ah_ , oh yes, gods, he’d struck gold. He’d heard the stories, they were some of his favourites. An amazing witcher, legendary. “Oh, fun. White hair… big, old loner, two very… very scary-looking swords.” He lit up in awe, as the witcher got up to leave. “I know who you are.”

The witcher continued to walk away and Jaskier ran after him, coming up to a pillar. “You’re the Witcher,” He gripped the pillar with one hand and leaned to one side, still in awe, “Geralt of Rivia.” It came out in a poetic fashion. Geralt continued to walk away. “Called it.”

He overheard Geralt getting a job from that curly haired man, and followed him out of the tavern, with nothing but his lute on his back. He was happy to find that Geralt hadn’t ridden away, and was instead leading his horse up a path.

“Ah. Need a hand? I’ve got two. One for each of the, uh, devil’s horns.” He sincerely _hoped_ Geralt caught onto his innuendo. It could reference the devil, yes, but there had been a rumour going around a couple years back that witchers had two dicks. He was interested in whether that was false or true.

“Go away,” Geralt said with only _a little_ annoyance, which was a good start.

“I won’t be but silent back-up.” A bare-faced lie, but Geralt wasn’t to know that. He placed his hand at his hip. “Look, I heard your note, and, yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock- _full_ of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn’t matter.” He began gesturing wildly with his hands, as he tended to do when he rambled. “Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

“It’s onion.”

“Right, yeah. Yep. Ooh, I could be your barker,” he widened his arms out in a grin, “spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the– the White Wolf!”

He… wanted to call him the Butcher of Blaviken but something stopped him in the last moment. Like he _knew_ it would be offensive, and yet, he didn’t know.

Geralt stopped in his tracks, and Jaskier merely waited, wondering what he could possibly say. He was very sure, at any given moment, that Geralt would punch him with no hesitation, taking the wind right out of him, but he wanted to see how far he could push it.

“Why would you call me that?” Geralt asked, turning to him.

“It seems right.” Jaskier gestured to him. “White hair, wolf school.” He smiled. “Your other title is much too cruel.”

Geralt clenched his jaw. “Butcher is right.”

“You see, I don’t believe that a witcher is anything remotely like a butcher.” The word ‘we’ snuck into his head when he went to speak next, stopping himself just in time. He didn’t know what was happening to him… but something was off. “You’re all like knights, who are extremely more adept at killing things.”

Geralt nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I suppose you don’t believe in other prejudices.”

Jaskier huffed a laugh, shrugging. He took a few steps forward. “I believe in what I know, and if what I know is wrong, I’m sure you’ll correct me like you did in the tavern.” He tossed a smile over his shoulder. “Now, where are we heading?”

Geralt gave him both a withering stare and a sigh. He glanced to his horse, tugging on her reins. “Come on, Roach.”

Jaskier smiled and walked alongside Geralt.

Something felt _right_ about being at his side, but for the life of him, he couldn’t work out why.

\--

“Mind if I hop up?” Jaskier asked as they walked along a dusty path. He went to reach for Roach. “It’s just that, I’m not really wearing the right kind of footwear.”

“Don’t touch Roach.”

“Right, yeah,” he murmured, as Geralt came to a stop, jumping off Roach, tying her to a tree. “Heard the elves called this Dol Blathanna, before the humans slaughtered their kind and forced them out.”

Geralt stopped in his tracks, tossing a glare over his shoulder. “You speak of them as if you aren’t human.”

Jaskier shrugged, moving towards Geralt. “Just delivering exposition.”

Geralt hummed and continued forward. Jaskier twisted his mouth, hardly understanding why he was doing this because... Well... Wait... Hold on a second.

“Devils don’t exist,” he said as they walked between some giant rocks. At Geralt’s silence, Jaskier continued, “Do they?”

“Bard, shut up.”

Jaskier thinned his lips. “I’m not one for silence myself.” He glanced ahead, keeping an eye out as they continued walking forward. “Since they don’t exist… what are we doing?

“Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both. _That’s_ … the life.”

Something shot passed them, grazing Geralt’s forehead. A strange tiny cannonball it seemed. Oddly shaped and carved. As if made that way to cause the most damage. Jaskier stepped further into the small clearing, noticing something between the plants. A... No, that wasn’t a devil at all. It was a sylvan. He knew them... must have read about them somewhere... Surely?

“A sylvan? I haven’t seen–” He grinned, eyes slightly in awe. “I must see this wonderful creature!”

“Jaskier...?” a small whisper called out. And his mind nearly shut off in an instant. Bar the few people he’d told, which had been very few indeed, no one knew that name, certainly none of which would be this far north. No sylvan would know it.

Geralt looked at him strangely, raising his eyebrow.

Jaskier took in a small breath, dashing through the grasses right up to the sylvan. He glared, harshly. “How do you know my name?”

The sylvan gaped at him, his arms loose at his sides. “It’s me, Jaskier. It’s Torque.”

“I’ve never met you...”

“I don’t know what has happened but,” Torque frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, the world went black.

\--

Jaskier blinked awake, seeing that he was tucked away in a cave, tied to Geralt. He sighed. Great... They’d been kidnapped. Torque knew his name somehow...? And Geralt had been taken off guard enough for them to be knocked out and taken. Bloody brilliant. This day was getting better and better.

Jaskier tilted his head back, almost groaning in protest at the rope tying them, when Geralt began to thrash. Well... he was awake at least.

“This is the part where we escape,” he said, like it was obvious.

“This is the part where they kill us!” Geralt continued to thrash before he calmed slightly, barely, but enough for the struggling to be less obvious. “How did you know it was a sylvan?”

“I... don’t know. Must have read it somewhere. I’m an Oxenfurt student after all.”

Geralt groaned, and Jaskier could feel the eyeroll. “Great, I’m sure your posh education will help us here.”

“Excuse me, Geralt of Rivia, but you’re the one who couldn’t guess the devil would be a sylvan. It’s fairly obvious. Their look is similar to what humans believe a devil to look like and–”

“And what?”

Jaskier furrowed his brow. “I didn’t know I knew that...”

“I thought Oxenfurt educated people boasted that they knew it all,” Geralt grumbled.

“Now, now–”

“Humans,” a voice growled, a red-haired elf coming into the cave. “They look perfectly human to me!” she shouted out, as another elf came in, picking up Jaskier’s lute.

The red-haired one stomped up to Geralt, kicking him in the face. She gritted out ‘beast’ in Elder as Geralt gritted out ‘elves’. Jaskier was distracted as the other elf strummed his lute, so much so that he wasn’t paying too much attention.

“Oi, that’s my lute! Give that back. Quick Geralt, do your– your witchering–”

“Shut up!” Geralt shouted.

“You shut up!” The red-haired elf said in Elder speech, kicking Geralt again.

Jaskier swiftly quipped, “My Elder speech is rough, I only got part of that.”

“Humans, shut up,” she said, firmly.

“Ah, got it, thanks so much,” he replied in Elder speech, perhaps a little too smugly.

“Do you wanna die right now?”

“As opposed to later?” Geralt said, sounding frustrated.

“No, please, not the lu–!” he shouted, immediately getting kicked in the chest by the red-haired elf.

“Leave off! He’s just a bard,” Geralt shouted, defending him, for some reason. Which earned him a punch in the face.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe,” the red-haired elf ranted. She hit Geralt again. “Everything you touch, you destroy.”

 _And_ … there went his lute. Broken to pieces, never to be repaired. Such a waste… The red-haired elf seemed to knee Geralt in the face for good measure.

“You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” Jaskier shouted roughly, angry now. He levelled the elf with a sharp glare. He wanted to scream that _he’d told them_ , but he didn’t know what in the bloody hell that meant. “You hide in your caves, when you could be out there, finding a new home to live in! Torque can only steal for you for so long.”

The elf stopped short, narrowing her eyes at him. “How did you...?”

“Well, it’s obvious he’s working for you. He didn’t knock me out, and I certainly didn’t either. And the job was about a devil stealing. Therefore, Torque is stealing grain for you to make food from. Not a difficult conclusion to come to.”

Another elf stepped into the cave, with Torque following closely behind.

“Oh, and who’s this?” Jaskier asked.

Torque and the new elf shared a look, a worried one. The red-haired elf seemed to stand down, her hands laying by her sides. Not about to attack anymore. But Jaskier wouldn’t put it past her. She was ready to fight, and win.

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves,” Torque explained, after a moment, that worried look still in his eye.

Filavandrel shook his head, his expression angry, tight. “Not a king. Not by choice.”

“The bard is right, you’re stealing for them,” Geralt said, sounding as if he’d come to the conclusion himself.

Torque stepped closer. “I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw, feelings rising in his gut that he did not understand. “No one deserves to be forced out of their home.”

Now the red-haired elf shared a questioning look with Filavandrel and Torque, a secret conversation happening in the language of eyes.

Instead, the subject was changed.

“Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt,” Torque said, sympathy in his voice.

Toruviel had that look in her eye, one of death. “What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?”

“One human.” Geralt said, firm. “And you can let him go.”

Filavandrel took a slow breath in, stepping around to stand before Geralt. “Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing. The humans will attack. Many will die… on both sides.”

“The lesser evil.” A pause. Jaskier had no doubt an entirely different conversation was being had now. “No matter what you choose, you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.”

“That’s the problem. I can’t.” His voice sounded off, like this was an _act_. Jaskier had no reason to think that, but the worried looks, Torque knowing his name… No, it was wrong. “This is necessary.”

“I understand. As long as you understand… that it won’t be long before you follow me in death.”

“Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil.” Jaskier could feel something, an old sense pulling at him, sympathy, one he had never felt for the elves before… and yet had. “Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.”

“Chaos is the same as it’s always been. Humans just adapted better,” Geralt spoke slowly, like he was trying to get through to Filavandrel, which was understandable considering their predicament.

“You say adapt, and I say _destroy_.”

“You _are_ choosing to starve. You’re cutting off your ear to spite your face.”

“You think this is about _pride_?!” Filavandrel was more than offended, he was _hurt_ at the implication. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of all they had. And when they fought back, they were _slaughtered_.”

Jaskier couldn’t hear anything anymore. Save for the screams. It was as if he could smell the fires the humans caused, could smell the fear of elves, and the smell of death and blood on human skin. The babes that lined the ground, cut down in their guardian’s arms… Him standing in the worst of it, raising his sword to defend.

As if he had been there to cut humans down, shouted at the elves to go. As if he had a distant connection to that day, like he could have done more but didn’t out of his own fear of being called a butcher, a humanslayer. And yet… it hadn’t mattered, because he became The Humanslayer all the same.

The Great Cleansing, they had called it, as if they had been doing the Continent a _favour_.

But all of that was just poetry, just him inserting himself into the terrifying event. He hadn’t even known of its existence, until… well, recently he presumed, too wrapped up in his ivory tower as a child for anyone to tell him the truth. Of what happened to the elves that once held this land, called it their own.

His own memories conflicted for a moment, and he snapped back into the conversation.

“If I bring my people down from these mountains, it would mean bowing to human _sovereignty_ ,” Filavandrel said, his voice clouded with anger and grief. “They’ll make slaves of us. Pariahs of half-blood children.”

“Then go _somewhere_ _else_. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be,” Geralt said, still speaking slowly. Those were strong and true words.

“Like you, Witcher?”

“I have learned to live with them. So that _I_ may live.”

Toruviel stepped closer to Filavandrel. “Please, my King. There are others. A new generation. Evellien who wish to _fight_! Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now.”

The sound of a dagger drawn did not inspire confidence in Jaskier. He turned his head as much as he could, watching as Torque reached out.

“No!” Torque shouted as he caught Filavandrel’s wrist, but he quickly shook him off.

“Torque, stand aside!” And yet… he didn’t look like he was about to kill them. An act, once again… Perhaps he was fooling himself, however. But his confidence in Filavandrel outweighed that, a risky thought but even still, it persisted, like he _knew_.

“He’s different, you know he is. Like us,” Torque said, eyes expectant.

“If you must kill me,” Geralt said, his voice deeper now, as if he was accepting this, “I am ready. But the sylvan’s right. Don’t call me human.”

Jaskier smiled as they were cut free.

\--

The new lute on his shoulder felt _much better_ than his last. As if the other came from another life, one that wasn’t his. This one, however, was a gift, and one he would treasure till his dying day.

Geralt was riding Roach once again, and Jaskier was trailing behind, happy to be free and alive. He’d opened up his doublet to allow himself to breathe better, and to, you know, show a little more… of his physique to Geralt.

“Who are you?” Geralt asked, his voice suspicious. He looked over his shoulder, and Jaskier stepped closer, looking up at him.

“I do suppose I didn’t tell you my name. I’m Jaskier, better known as Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

“So how did you know it was a sylvan, not a devil? How did you guess he was stealing for them? Why don’t you believe the elves live in golden palaces? You’re a nobleman, you should have been fed the lies, not the truth.”

Jaskier took a breath, ready to explain, but a tiny part of him said that he’d been there. That humans stayed away from him, cast him out of towns and villages in the north because he was the Humanslayer, dangerous and unwanted.

But he knew that wasn’t true, that he was only a bard, with an imagination. Plenty of it, to make things up.

“I read, a lot.” Coën suddenly came into his mind again, and vaguely, he knew he was a witcher. “You’re not the first witcher I’ve met either, Geralt. I met one when I was younger, he came to our town once, told me many truths.” It was a lie, but it was the only thing that made sense because how _did_ he know? And yet, he kept quiet. Ever since he’d woken up in bed, after nearly dying, something had felt off. He wasn’t himself. He knew things he shouldn’t have. And he was scared.

Geralt quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re curious, Jaskier.”

“What can I say? I’m beyond my years.” He grinned up at him. “Credit where credit is due. That whole reverse-psychology thing you did on them was brilliant, by the way.” With a smirk, he imitated Geralt, “‘Kill me. I’m ready.’”

He smiled slightly as Geralt glared oh so silently at him.

“I’m glad you gave all of Nettly’s coin to the elves. They deserve it for all the violence they endured…”

Geralt raised his eyebrows at him. “Filavandrel seemed all too ready to give you that lute for the trouble that was caused. He seemed… thankful.”

Jaskier twisted his mouth. “I have no idea why.” He reached back, holding the neck of the lute. “She’s sexy, isn’t she? I wouldn’t give her up easily.” He paused, letting a serious tone cloud his voice. “I do have respect for Filavandrel. He survived the Great Cleansing once. Who knows? Maybe he can do it again. Be reborn...”

Something struck him then, inspiration.

“Will the elf king heed,  
What the witcher entreats?  
Is history a wheel,  
Doomed to repeat?”

He pressed his lips together, looking down. “Nah, that’s… _shit_.”

“This is where we part ways, bard, for good.”

“Look, I think I can change the public’s tune about you. They call you something I know you don’t want to be called.”

Geralt tossed him an unimpressed look.

Jaskier continued on anyway, “I could see it in the way you said butcher. At least allow me to try, you deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve anything.”

“Everyone deserves kindness. The elves, Torque, you. We all do.” He spun the lute around, holding it in his arms. “Please?”

Geralt said nothing, so Jaskier took it as a yes.

“When a humble bard…” he began, the other lyrics easily following suit as the pieces fell into place in his mind. He continued to walk, singing without a thought. “And so cried the witcher, he can’t be bleat.”

Geralt came to an abrupt stop. “That’s not how it happened. Where’s your newfound respect?”

Jaskier stopped, turning around. He tilted his head. “Respect doesn’t make history.” He smiled, sadly. “You and I both know that.” He swivelled back around, continuing to play.

He knew, for a moment, Geralt didn’t follow, but he smiled as he did, singing the song louder as Geralt appeared at his side once more. The song did not speak of the truth, and they both knew it couldn’t. But it would make Geralt a friend of humanity if he sang it enough times.

Of that, he was sure.

\--

“The Humanslayer, oh he cut down the humans,  
They were after the elves, hurt them, made them bloody,  
And the Humanslayer, he ensured the humans paid for their betrayal.”

Jaskier placed his lute down and continued to write in his notebook, having no idea why he was writing this song now. It had been a couple years since the elf incident in Posada. But the most recent happenings had reminded him of it. They’d run into some elves when stocking up on potions (they’d been getting help for their glamours).

“Who is the Humanslayer?” Geralt asked, dumping another log on their fire.

Jaskier furrowed his brow. “I don’t know. No one, I suppose. Not every song has to be based off fact.”

“But the Humanslayer defended the elves in this story?”

“He did.”

Geralt sat by the fire, stoking it with a thick stick. “I’ve heard of a humanslayer. He was a witcher of the griffin school. I never knew him myself, but I’ve heard whispers that he was a man who cared for creatures more than he did humans. Although, he managed to live amongst them regardless, charming them with his wit.”

“Where did you hear that?” Jaskier asked eagerly.

“From humans, mostly. From other witchers.”

Jaskier could imagine him. The Humanslayer. With a griffin medallion resting upon his chest, swords at his sides, his hair haphazard as he fought against creatures determined to kill him. He always went for white horses, geldings instead of mares. There was just something different about having a gelding. He wore armour as strong as Geralt’s, but with much more colour and with finer clothes underneath. A remnant of his past, before being abandoned.

Maybe he would incorporate that into his song. Although, he doubted the real Humanslayer would like that very much. But the image was very much there, clear in his head, as if he knew, as if he’d met him. It was strange and unfamiliar.

He cast it aside, he was far too creative for his own good.

“Do you know anything else about him?”

Geralt stared into the fire for a long while. “Only that he hasn’t been seen in years.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, sighing. “He’s dead then.”

“Most likely, unfortunately. It happens.”

“Hmm.” He placed a hand on his lute, plucking a string. “I imagine, with a name like that, he went out fighting for what was right.”

Geralt was quiet for a moment, playing with the fire almost. “Maybe.”

Jaskier picked up his lute now, setting it in his lap as he began to play. He closed his eyes, letting a sorrowful tune surround their camp. Singing about the Humanslayer.

A witcher of the griffin school, determined to cut down the one true monster… humans. He sang about his death, sacrificing his body so that no one would ever find him, never know he was dead. Hoping that his stories would live on beyond him, that there would always be rumours of his whereabouts.

“He fought his last,  
Swinging himself down a cliff,  
His body left in the grass,  
Battered and alone.

And the Humanslayer’s story would live on,  
Beyond his life, as short or as long as it was,  
Death did not halt his story nor the fear.

The Humanslayer never did once stray from his rules,  
Never strayed from the needy and defenceless,  
Fighting till his dying breath like a fool,  
For what was right, when death watched on.

Oh, he had been alone,  
As alone as any witcher,  
With no true friends,  
Or a rightful place to call home.

Oh, the Humanslayer, how he did make evil pay.”

Geralt came to sit next to Jaskier on the cold ground. “It’s almost as if you knew him.”

Jaskier smiled tightly. “That’s a mighty compliment, dear witcher. For my story to sound real is an achievement.”

“The witcher you knew, what was his name? Could he have been the Humanslayer?”

“I don’t think he was… His name was Coën.”

Geralt pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of him, but I haven’t met him. I don’t think he’s the Humanslayer either.”

“Coën is a vague memory of mine. I remember his stories.” A lie, he remembered much less than that. “But I don’t remember much about his features. I do suppose I was a child.”

“If the Humanslayer is of the griffin school, Coën would know him.”

Jaskier stared into the distance, a little lost, a little like he should have known, and had… forgotten. “Hm. Interesting.”

Geralt nudged his shoulder. “Come on, sing a jollier tune. You look a little upset.”

He barked a laugh. “And when have you cared if I look upset or not?”

Geralt frowned. “I do, care.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier smiled, tilting his head to the sky. The stars were bright tonight. “What should I sing then?”

“Your favourite song?”

“That would be Toss a Coin then!” He settled his hands on his lute and Geralt groaned, rolling his eyes.

“That song haunts me.”

“But it does get us some good coin.”

“Hm.”

“It _does_.” He began playing, looking at Geralt with nothing but joy. “When a humble bard, graced a ride along...”

Geralt lay back on the ground, resting against his hands, sighing, exasperated. Jaskier grinned as he sang, glad to find out that Geralt did care while also being an annoyance to him. There was nothing wrong with irritating a close friend, in fact, there was little better than that. Not to drive them away, oh no, just to have fun, to laugh.

“ _Toss a coin to your witcher! O’ Valley of Plenty!”_

He sang loudly, until something bounced off his shoulder, falling by his side, hitting off the ground. He stopped singing, glancing down, seeing a coin lying in the grass. He huffed a laugh and picked it up, staring at Geralt.

“I’m not a witcher.”

Geralt smiled, his eyes were closed, like he’d wanted to pretend to be asleep. “Might as well be with all that knowledge of creatures and things you shouldn’t know.” He opened one eye. “How many books must you read?”

Jaskier tossed the coin at Geralt, who let it bounce off his stomach, doing nothing to stop it or try and catch it. “I’m not sure. A lot?”

“Hm.” Geralt opened his other eye now, gazing at Jaskier for a long moment. “When did you say you were born?”

“1222.”

“That makes you… twenty-four. And you went to Oxenfurt for two years?”

“From sixteen till I turned eighteen, yes.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”

Geralt closed his eyes again. “Nothing, Jaskier. Nothing at all.”

“And then there’s Coën for my knowledge.” He shrugged, glancing down at his lute. He didn’t know what Geralt was trying to say but _he didn’t like it_. “Stop trying to dig into it.”

There was silence, until, “Continue singing.”

“What, was my voice lulling you to sleep?”

“Lulling me to boredom more like, enough to make me sleep.”

Jaskier chuckled, lightly kicking Geralt’s leg with his foot. “Now that, I don’t believe for a second.”

Geralt glared at him, lips pouting. “Don’t kick me.”

“Don’t insult my singing.”

He smirked. “Fair.”

Jaskier looked at him for a long moment, trailing his jaw with his eyes. Not even a hint of irritation. He sometimes wondered what was true and what was an act. “What do you _really_ want me to play?”

“The melody of that one about my scar from the vampire.”

He smiled now, settling his lute comfortably as he began to play. It was a haunting yet peaceful tune, relying on low dark notes, with a beautiful sweet melody running through it. As if the vampire hadn’t been a monster, when it had. He watched as Geralt’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips settling in a soft smile. He could pretend all he liked, but Jaskier knew the truth, that it was Geralt of Rivia who followed the bard, not the other way around.

And that knowledge, had him playing his softer melodies, right until Geralt’s breathing evened out. Even though he likely didn’t need it, Jaskier covered him with a blanket. He looked peaceful, sleeping, like nothing haunted him, as it did in his waking hours. Jaskier settled down for the night too, staring up at the starry sky.

Geralt’s words circled in his head. _Why_ did he know so much about things no noble human would? It didn’t make any sense. And he had a feeling, a terrifying one, that he wouldn’t be able to escape the answer forever. He didn’t know when it would all catch up to him, but he liked the way things were. With him and Geralt, side by side, him armed with nothing but his lute and songs, and Geralt armed with his swords and potions.

They made the perfect pair, and he didn’t want anything ruining that. Especially not himself. But he was holding a secret within him, secret even to his own mind. Vague recollections that made no sense, and knowledge he didn’t remember gaining.

He was doomed to the truth, terrified for what it could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will either be every day or every other day. So it will either be fully uploaded by Sunday, or Tuesday!!!
> 
> Come chat to me on [tumblr!](https://kateis-cakeis.tumblr.com/)


	2. Banquet Of Destiny

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night supporting your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Oh.” He was _not_ getting away with _that_ nonsense. “Oh, really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

Geralt looked at him, glared really, resting one arm on the rim of the bath.

But Jaskier knew him better than that.

“Yeah, well, yeah, exactly. That’s what I thought.” He walked towards the bath salts on the cabinet. “Every lord, knight and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal.” _Ah_ , there was Geralt’s favourite kind of salt. “The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!” He chucked the salt into the bath as Geralt stared at him.

“Why do you want me to come with you?”

Jaskier sighed and sat at the stool by the bath, frowning. “We’ve been _friends_ for a long time now, I think it’s about time you see me at court.”

Geralt glared but didn’t correct him this time.

Jaskier leant towards him. “You know, if you stop denying we’re friends, it’ll make things easier on you.”

He reached for his ale, taking a sip, his golden eyes piercing as he gave a withering stare. “Will it now?”

“Yes.” Jaskier got up and walked over to the dresser, picking up the shirt he’d chosen for Geralt. “You followed me, remember. Don’t be a fool about what’s real.” He walked back along the bath to face Geralt, a hand on his hip as he gazed down at him. “Witchers don’t have to be alone. I’m here, I choose to be here.”

Geralt put his ale down, staring at the bath water. “You’ll get yourself killed one day, at my side.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” He folded his arms, shaking his head at him. “Ugh. Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably cynical and cantankerous?” He paused for a second, watching as several expressions crossed Geralt’s face. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?” He somehow _knew_ the answer, and it was no, never, absolutely not. Because witchers fought until they died, till they made a mistake, or got slow, or got too comfortable for a second too long.

And they succumbed to death like everyone else. Barely ever having the chance to get old. It was worse for griffins, sticking to the original knightly code, settling down could never be an option. It just wasn’t on the cards.

So, it wasn’t a surprise when Geralt said, “Yeah. When they slow and get killed.”

“Come on, you must want something for yourself once all this…” He gestured vaguely, as if he could convey everything he wanted to say in the movement of his hands alone, “monster hunting nonsense is over with.

“I want nothing.” His voice was steady, as was his stare, but Jaskier knew it was a lie.

He pretended to check his nails. “Well, who knows?” He flicked his head to the side, stepping forward and kneeling in front of Geralt, arms on the rim of the bath. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

Maybe that someone was _himself_. He’d thought about it, many times over the years, and his heart was growing fond of Geralt. Fonder than it had for anyone else. Not that he pursued many relationships. Even though people liked to throw themselves at him, an old habit persisted. Although, the reason for that habit was unknown to him.

“I need no one,” he said, staring elsewhere. He looked to Jaskier as he continued, “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

Jaskier stared down at the water for a second. “And yet…” He raised his head, “here we are.”

“Hm.” He gave a small nod, head turning away before he looked back and forth, casting an annoyed expression towards him. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

“Ah. Well, uh, they were sort of covered in selkiemore guts, so I sent them away to be washed.” He took a breath, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “Anyway you’re not going tonight in your armour.”

Geralt clenched his jaw. “What will I be wearing…?”

Jaskier lit up in a grin. “You’re going to love it.”

 _Well_ , he didn’t hate it, which was good. It fit Geralt better than he’d expected, and he looked _divine_ in it. Now, if only he would wear fashion like _that_ more often. Against his soft hair (that Jaskier had helped him wash and tie up), the outfit was perfect. And there was something awfully matching about their two outfits. Geralt in blue and grey, Jaskier in gold. It worked together well, they looked like a pair.

“Right,” he began as they arrived, “so stick close to me if you don’t want to get lost in a sea of nobles.”

Geralt huffed a breath. “Think I can’t handle nobility?”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. “I think you can piss them off, and these banquets usually end in fights. I don’t want my performance ruined, _thank you_.”

“I’ll behave.”

He hummed.

And then, because they were cursed, a man boomed, “Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!”

The man was dressed finely, and surely knew Geralt. He looked rugged and yet, neat.

The man approached. “I haven’t seen you since the plague.”

“Good times, Mousesack,” Geralt said, neutral.

Mousesack laughed. “I’ve missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost.” He placed a hand at Geralt’s shoulder, eyeing him with confusion as he looked over his clothes. “Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?”

Geralt turned his head to look at Jaskier, as _if_. Sad silk trader, no, absolutely not.

Jaskier pretended to be innocent. “What? You don’t like it?”

Geralt opened his mouth to reply, but Mousesack placed his hand at Geralt’s other shoulder, pulling him away, saying, “Walk with me.”

“To Mousesack!” someone shouted.

Jaskier sighed, so much for having Geralt at his side tonight. He made his way over to a marble platform that was by the stairs to the main table, setting his lute down upon it and opening the case. The hall was certainly grand, and it still wasn’t sinking in quite right that he was about to play in Cintra’s court. For Queen Calanthe and Princess Pavetta to listen to his music. (He’d been hired because Pavetta was a fan of his, apparently, which was wonderful and absurd.)

Jaskier was quickly interrupted as someone approached from behind. He turned to find an angry lord approaching him with daggers in his eyes. Oh… this wasn’t good. There was no feasible way the lord could be angry with him and yet…

The lord grabbed his arm, forcing him back against a half-wall, finger pointing at him as he accused, “Something about you reminds me of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife’s chambers.”

“Um, what…?”

He gestured downwards with his finger. “Drop your trousers.”

Jaskier furrowed his brow. “ _What_?”

“I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face, but that pimply arse I’d remember anywhere,” he seethed angrily.

Jaskier was lost and confused. “Good Lord, I can assure you that I do not sleep with married women. I will _not_ drop my trousers, and if you force me to, I will be forced to do something you would not like.”

The lord clenched his jaw. “Like _what_?”

“You wouldn’t want to find out,” Geralt said, placing a hand at the lord’s shoulder, staring at him with hard eyes. “I’d suggest you leave the bard alone.”

The lord jutted his chin out. “Why should I?”

“Because, as my friend has said, he does not sleep with married women.” Jaskier noticed his grip on the lord’s shoulder tightened. “Do you not trust his word?”

“Of– Of course I do. I– I apologise.” And then the lord went running off.

Geralt stepped in front of Jaskier, smiling. “What would you have done?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Who knows?” He placed a hand at his hip. “Thank you, for helping there.”

“I saved your life.” Geralt gave him the softest look, and Jaskier was sure his heart nearly shut off at the sight. “Don’t get any daggers in your back from lords mistaking you.” He tilted his head, eyes still soft (and oh so golden in the light), a small smile pulling at his lips. It was far too _gentle_. “You have a band to lead yet.”

“That I do.”

And then the trumpets sounded, and Queen Calanthe’s arrival was announced. Geralt stayed at the wall as Jaskier grabbed his lute, walking back to the stairs, settling on the second step, as the band rushed over to their positions. Calanthe started talking about putting townships in the south in their place. He didn’t care much for what she was saying. Until…

“Bard! Music!” she shouted.

He bowed, beginning to sing a graceful song about her, but he was quickly cut off.

“No, no, no! A jig! You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral.”

Well, he could certainly get a jig going. He turned to the band. “Three, four…” And then they were playing, and Jaskier felt right at home, grinning at the many nobles sitting and enjoying their time at the banquet. At least he could provide some mild entertainment for now.

Then a fight broke out between two lords. Something over a manticore. And then Calanthe was pointing out that they had an esteemed guest with them tonight. That he could declare which lord was telling the truth. And Jaskier was _worried_. This very well could have ended quite horribly, so when Geralt glanced to him, Jaskier shook his head.

Luckily, he understood, backing down, even though it hurt him to lie. Geralt truly cared about the truth when it came to monsters, especially over what existed and what didn’t. “Perhaps the lords encountered… rare subspecies of manticore.”

Jaskier let out a breath of relief.

Calanthe laughed, _which did not bode well_. “Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?”

Geralt smirked. _Oh gods,_ oh no. “There was no slaying. I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of elves.”

The disappointed grunts, groaning, and other noises that came from the crowd, was not good at all.

“I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go,” he finished.

One of the lords reached his arm out. “But the song.”

Jaskier smiled in pain, there went his reputation. “Yeah, the song…”

The smile did not leave Geralt’s lips, he was loving this too much. “At least when Filavandrel’s blade kissed my throat, I didn’t shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you, good lords. At your final breath, a shitless death.” He raised his tankard in a toast. “But I doubt it,” he said, taking a sip of his ale.

The crowd both liked and disliked that. Jaskier truly lost track of what was happening.

“It would have been your blade at Filavandrel’s throat had you been there, Your Majesty,” Eist said, and cheering followed. “Not that any elven bastards would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw, ready to fling himself off the steps and stick a dagger through Eist’s throat at the _implication_. How dare he! How dare he say that. As if the elves were nothing, as if Filavandrel should have been killed! Elves had been cut down, people had died, _on both sides_. He could still smell the blood, how _dare_.

“Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night,” Calanthe said. As if not killing elves was a _failure_. “Come, Witcher. Take a seat by my side while I change.”

Geralt seemed ready to pull a sword on her, with how angry his eyes looked.

Jaskier decided to get distracted by playing music, as per his job, while Geralt looked so out of place at the main table. It was funny, how quickly it had all turned back around on him. But he did look awfully sick of his life up there. Oh, well, he shouldn’t have tempted fate.

A few nobles decided to request Fishmonger’s Daughter, which was either a mistake or a large blessing. Jaskier got the band together, and coordinated on how to proceed. Soon enough, Jaskier was gliding around the hall as people clapped their hands, banged their fists, and stomped their feet to the beat. He loved this song for that, for how people got involved.

Quickly, however, the song had come to an end and a resounding applause followed. He smiled and bowed, as did the band. And they went off to take a small break. Surely more suitors would be vying for Pavetta’s hand next. He couldn’t very well steal the show, for this night was Pavetta’s and silly noblemen trying to marry into power. Honestly, _who would_?

He noticed Eist urge his man up to make his… pitch? But before he could, the doors came crashing open. What Jaskier could only presume was a knight, shoved at the guards, elbowing one in the neck. He began walking further into the hall.

“Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards.” He stretched his hand out, a signal of meaning no harm. “Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time.” He stopped at the centre of the hall, kneeling down. “I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“A knight… of no renown… from a backwater hamlet… who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?” Calanthe said, anger bubbling beneath her words.

“I apologise, Your Majesty. A knight’s oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell.”

“Bollocks to that,” Eist said, walking quickly, pulling Urcheon’s helmet right off his face, and… Oh.

A cursed knight. Now, that– That was _interesting_. His face seemed to be half hedgehog, half human… What a wonder. Jaskier hadn’t seen that in a long time. At his face being revealed, Urcheon looked slightly terrified and yet, prepared. He glanced over to the main table, seeing a conversation happening between Calanthe and Geralt.

And then…

“Slay this beast!” Calanthe shouted.

Urcheon quickly dodged an attack, punching the guard down. He elbowed the other in the face, disarming him. This knight, he had great skill. He pointed the sword he’d gained outwards, towards the table. “Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise.”

 _Oh no_. Well, that surely made _everything_ so much worse.

And… all the guards withdrew their swords. Urcheon was like a whirlwind really, fast and smart with each attack, with each dodge. Slicing with precision. But despite his skill, he was disarmed quickly enough, and knocked to the ground. The guards stood over him, as Urcheon tried to push himself back.

The guard that had knocked him down raised his halberd, it was all about to end–

Geralt intervened, saving Urcheon’s life. There was a brief moment, a pause. The calm before the bigger storm, as it were. Until…

“Kill them both!” Calanthe yelled.

In an instant, Urcheon and Geralt were outnumbered, and more than likely on their way to death. This fight would not end easily. So, Jaskier safely left his lute upon its case and picked up a discarded sword at the edge of the fight. It was light in his hands, like an old friend.

Too natural for his memories of limited sword practice.

He rolled his shoulders and stepped into the fight, slicing through a man who’d been heading towards Geralt. He spun around, blocking an attack from some guard or other, catching his blade on his neck. Reaching Geralt’s side, he smiled, ready to fight with him.

Geralt briefly paused as he set eyes on him, after slashing a guard’s armour. “Jaskier?”

“Shut up, I’m here to help.”

They split off from each other, cutting at people who were attempting to kill them. Jaskier grinned as he triumphantly sliced through one man, quickly spinning to block an attack from another, kicking him away before sticking his sword through his lower leg, withdrawing swiftly.

More joined the fight, from all corners of the room. _Well_ … if they wanted to perish, fair play to them.

He twirled around, covering his back, cutting down another man. Whirling to defend himself, he thrust the pommel of his sword in one guard’s face, just as Geralt sliced at his ankles. The man went down with a scream. There was a vicious power he held when fighting, that he had no prior knowledge of. As quick and lethal as Geralt. Even though he should have been far from it.

He launched himself forward, punching a guard in the face as the man tried to swing his sword towards his stomach. _Not today._ The man staggered back and Jaskier swivelled on his heel, hitting his sword strong against another guard’s armour. His eyes slid to Geralt, as he spun around, stopping still as Calanthe’s sword faced him.

“Stop,” she said. “Stop!”

Both lowered their swords, and Jaskier suddenly felt as if he could breathe again now that the fighting had halted in its tracks.

What happened next occurred in a sort of blur. Pavetta was running to Urcheon, embracing him, her hands on his cheeks. It was sweet, beautiful. Then Urcheon was explaining. He’d been cursed as a boy, claimed the Law of Surprise when he saved King Roegner from certain death. And of course, Pavetta had been that surprise.

Then Eist got involved, defending Urcheon’s choice of the Law of Surprise. And then Pavetta was speaking of their love, as was Urcheon. Mousesack got involved, calling to honour destiny’s wish. Who were any of them to deny such a power, that was beyond them, beyond the gods? But Calanthe saw it as nothing more than her child being taken away…

Then… she called on Geralt, asking if he was afraid of destiny. Jaskier nearly choked on a laugh. Geralt and destiny? It was absurd to think he even believed in it, never mind being afraid. No, he didn’t believe in shit like that.

“No. I’ve seen mothers lash themselves raw over the death of a child, believing they crossed destiny, ignoring the stench of the fifty other children in the plague cart outside.” From the description alone, Jaskier could almost smell the disease. “Destiny… helps people believe there’s an order to this horseshit. There isn’t. But a promise made must be honoured. As true for a commoner… as it is for a queen.”

Pavetta cupped Urcheon’s neck. “I love Duny, Mother.” She looked to Calanthe with fire in her eyes. “I will marry him. I will finally be free.”

Calanthe offered her sword to Eist, which he gently took. She looked to Urcheon, extending her hand to him. All the guards lowered their weapons in an instant. Urcheon moved towards her, placing his hands in hers. She leant close to his ear, whispering something and pulled back. All seemed well, like this whole mess was over with, but–

She just had to pull a dagger.

Pavetta screamed, “NO!”

And it swiftly went to hell, as they were all sent flying back by a powerful wave of magic. Jaskier’s back smacked against a wall solidly, and he watched carefully, wishing he had something to hand that could help as glass shattered and wind violently shook through the hall. In the tornado of chaos, Pavetta and Urcheon began raising up, floating, hovering in the air as the wild magic continued on.

Jaskier watched, mesmerised by it. He had seen nothing like this before. Mousesack began an attempt to contain it, and Jaskier spotted Geralt at the other side of the room. The tornado around Pavetta and Urcheon got in the way of his sight, but he saw Geralt down a potion, and a few moments later, Pavetta and Urcheon came tumbling down.

The chaos had come to an end, and Jaskier caught Geralt’s line of sight. He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows, trying to convey his shock. Geralt nodded back to him, seemingly understanding.

Calanthe began walking down the steps, approaching slowly. She hugged Pavetta, a beautiful moment in all the shit that had just happened. Everyone else began to get back up, confusion clear in their expressions. It was almost like a fairytale, the way this had unfolded, the way it still was unfolding. 

“I thought your grandmother’s gift had skipped you… as it did me. It seems I was wrong. About so many things.” She took a step back, loudly proclaiming, “Destiny has spoken! And I have listened. The Law of Surprise will be honoured. Pavetta will marry Lord Urcheon.”

“React poorly and you won’t just face the Lioness, you will be facing the sea hounds of Skellige. Because Queen Calanthe has… agreed to my proposal of marriage,” Eist said, standing beside her.

Well, that was shocking. Jaskier had a feeling no ballad could ever contain the horrors, the romance, the bonds being forged before their very eyes. It was amazing, in a way that was entirely unbelievable.

“There will be two vows here tonight! I assume that’s agreeable” Calanthe said. Everyone nodded. “Delightful.”

Soon enough, they had all been given lit candles, and everyone was standing in a circle. Pavetta and Urcheon knelt on the floor, and Calanthe was wrapping their hands together, and they were bound. Married. They sealed it with a kiss, and then… Well.

Urcheon had transformed, into a man. The curse… it had been broken. Urcheon pulled off his glove, realising what had happened, and then he was crawling over. He and Pavetta shared a passionate kiss. The world was full of wonders tonight indeed.

“The twelfth bell has not yet rung,” Pavetta said.

Calanthe looked down at them in confusion. “What has happened?”

“I think your blessing of this marriage…” Mousesack began, stepping forward slightly, “has fulfilled a destiny. The curse has been lifted.”

Pavetta and Urcheon shared such a sweet look. Kissing again.

“I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet,” Jaskier murmured, many emotions clouding his voice as he placed a hand at his chest.

Geralt looked to him for a moment. “If your lute didn’t get broken in the fight.”

Jaskier smiled, showing him that it was right on his shoulder. “It’s as fine as always.”

“Come on then.” Geralt inclined his head, turning to go. He would normally leave him on his own, ready to escape him at any moment, but not this time. Jaskier, for the first time, felt as if Geralt really wanted him at his side.

“No, Wait!” Urcheon said, clambering to his feet. “Wait. You saved my life. I must repay you.”

Geralt shook his head, an almost smile on his lips. “You’ve proven yourself to be the kind of man who would do the same.” He shrugged, turning away again. “I want nothing.”

“No, please. Please, Geralt of Rivia, do not feel like you’re doing me a service. I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life dept.”

“Fine. I…” He paused, appearing to struggle on what to say, “claim the tradition as you have, the Law of Surprise. Give me that which you already have but do not know.” He turned away again but Jaskier had a feeling that there was no turning away now…

Of course Geralt would watch chaos fall apart around them as a destiny was achieved, and still think destiny was some fake belief, enough to claim the tradition that had just _caused all this_. Did he not know the kinds of things that happened when witchers claimed the Law of Surprise? It was never anything good.

“No!” Calanthe called out, a horrified expression upon her face. “What have you done, Witcher?”

“Fear not, Your Majesty, if I’m seen in your kingdom again, it’ll be to kill a real monster, not lay claim to a crop or a new pup.” He pointedly looked at Eist. “Destiny can go fu–”

 _And…_ there it was. Pavetta vomiting up. A child. The surprise was a child.

“Pavetta?” Calanthe said, gently, bending down. “Are you…? Oh…” She looked to Geralt with wide eyes.

Geralt’s eyes darted back and forth. “Fuck.” He began walking away, footsteps heavy.

Mousesack followed him out and Jaskier wasn’t far behind. _Shit_. What had he been _thinking_? After everything that had just happened. He’d spat in the face of destiny and destiny spat back, as it always did when someone tried to fuck with it. And for some reason, destiny wanted Geralt to have a child.

Geralt pulled his sword from a chair that had made its way outside the hall. And he walked off. Jaskier stayed back, by the entrance, as Mousesack continued forth.

“Clearly the girl has access to immense primal power,” Mousesack said as Geralt turned to face him.

“Yeah, and with no idea how to control it.”

“I’m gonna stay. Guide her.”

Geralt sighed, a soft smile upon his lips. “You’re a good man, Mousesack.” He tried to go again, but…

“You should stay too.”

“This has been enough partying for me,” he said, with a smile. “I’m getting out of here.”

“You’re bound to this now, Geralt.” Mousesack stepped forward, stopping close to Geralt. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I’m not for changing. You know me better than that.”

“Yes, I do, but you can’t outrun destiny just because you’re terrified of it. It’s coming Geralt. Not believing won’t change that.”

“Bullshit.” _Of course, he still didn’t heed destiny’s warning_. Mousesack was right, and yet, Geralt didn’t see it. “This was just a girl using her magic to stop her mother from gutting her lover. Nothing more.”

“So you say. But the bond that will come into being between you and this child… when it is born, will be extraordinary. If you dismiss it, leave without claiming this… child surprise, you will surely unleash true calamity upon us all.”

The words were wise and no doubt true. But Geralt still didn’t see it, Jaskier could tell by his expression alone. The magic, the destiny they had seen here today, it was proof that no one could outrun the life that was meant for them. Not really, not if it was destiny’s way.

“I’ll take that chance. Mind yourself. True words are rare birds in courts like this. Watch for daggers in your back.” Geralt sighed, his expression overly concerned. “Or, more likely, poison.” He reached out, placing a hand at his shoulder. “Be careful, old friend.”

He turned to go and Jaskier sighed, barrelling out into the hallway to follow. Mousesack looked at him, his eyes narrowing, and he stepped into his path. Jaskier _did not_ have time for this.

“Bard, you’re Geralt’s friend…”

Jaskier looked in the direction in which Geralt was going, his back retreating… He sighed, staying, willing to listen. “Not that he will admit it often, but yes.”

Mousesack pressed his lips together. “Make sure you look after him. This will play on his mind.”

“I know, and I will, as I always will.” Jaskier nodded to him. “Now, I’ll make sure he does not go through this night alone.”

Mousesack stepped back, and Jaskier chased after Geralt down the hallway.

He caught up to Geralt as he continued his quick pace down the hallway. He said nothing for a second, observing Geralt’s expression quietly. He knew he had to be gentle, to talk slow and not make a joke of it, otherwise Geralt would toss him on his arse and leave, alone. When the last thing he needed was to be alone.

“You may not want a child, Geralt, but this can be a good thing,” he said, after a moment.

“It’s far from good.”

“Witchers are sterile, and I can’t recall when the last one was made, that child, she could be trained.”

Geralt shook his head. “I couldn’t...”

Jaskier placed a hand at his arm, pulling them both to a stop. They stood, in an empty corridor, a stark contrast to the full hall. “I could see it, you being like another father to the child. They would be lucky to have you protecting them.”

He glanced down. “No one wants a witcher as their father.”

And no, Jaskier was not having that. “We’ll see what happens, but destiny planned this, whether you believe in it or not.” He smiled, reassuringly, moving his hand to grasp Geralt’s shoulder. “I believe you would make a good father.”

Geralt stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Jaskier’s. “You really believe that.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re better than you think you are.” He squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get back to the tavern. We need to sleep this night off.” He moved away from him, clutching his lute strap, and Geralt slowly followed. Sighing out, he said, “I’m sorry, for bringing you here tonight. I shouldn’t have...”

Geralt scoffed. “Don’t. I enjoyed the night, before.”

Jaskier stopped again, looking to Geralt with a raised eyebrow. “You liked my singing?”

“Now, I didn’t–”

He grinned now, turning back around with a skip in his step. “You like my singing.” He chuckled, softly. “You admitted it, finally...! I never thought this day would come.”

Geralt grit out an exasperated sigh. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Jaskier tossed a joyful look over his shoulder, and Geralt was calmly walking behind him, a good few paces back. “I’m your friend, and I’m the only one willing to stick at your side on your travels. If you hated me, you would have told me to fuck off long ago.”

Geralt smirked, his eyebrows jumping up. “I have told you to leave, and to fuck off.”

“And did it work, and did you press?”

“No...”

Jaskier grinned. “Precisely.” He turned a corner, and in the next moment, they were walking out onto the streets.

They were back at their room before long, and Jaskier gratefully fell face first onto his bed. They had been lucky this time around, managing to get a room with two beds in it, but Jaskier did miss Geralt’s warmth when they didn’t have to share one together.

“You did tempt destiny,” Jaskier said as he pushed himself up, resting his head on his hand, just as Geralt sat on his bed, pulling off his boots.

“Remember when I spoke of Renfri?”

“I couldn’t forget that story.”

“She said something, ‘The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny’.” Geralt frowned, lips pinched. “If this is my destiny now...”

“Then you’ll meet in the woods...” Jaskier furrowed his brow. “That seems, unrealistic. I hope nothing bad happens to the– well, princess, I suppose.”

“Hm.” He kicked his other boot off and lay back on the bed. “I should have asked for coin.”

“Too late now.” Jaskier smiled. “It would be you, to see all that, and then claim the same tradition.”

“I thought nothing would come of it.”

“Come on, you’re a witcher, destiny loves nothing more than to fuck with witchers.” He flopped onto his back. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here.”

For a moment, Jaskier thought nothing more would be said. After all, the night had taken a lot out of them. With performing, the fight, the whole destiny business. But, Geralt shifted, turning on his side.

“Why? Why do you choose to stay with me?” he asked, his voice slightly… thin.

Jaskier felt a smile tug at his lips. For the excitement, the adventure, the mystery, their ever growing friendship (again, as much as Geralt would like to deny it) and... for his heart that was fond. “Because I like it.” He turned his head. “I like _you_. You deserve kindness, and I’ll be the one, here, every day, giving you that.”

Geralt stared, his eyes gazing, almost piercing. He felt as if he was being studied, to see if he was being sincere. “You care...”

“Yes, I do.”

He gave a nod and rolled onto his back once more. “For a human you’re very...”

“What?”

“Knowing. Understanding.”

“I suppose my good education is to blame.”

Geralt hummed.

A silence fell over them, and that was that. A bizarre hellish adventure had come to an end, thankfully. Geralt knew he cared, and _he knew_ Geralt cared. It really felt as if they were beginning to understand each other. In a way they hadn’t before. And if Jaskier was here to support him, now, he was sure their friendship would only grow stronger.

“You’ll see, Geralt. It won’t be as bad as you think,” Jaskier murmured.

“For once, Jaskier, I hope you’re right.”

Even though he had that same hope, he knew, they both knew, that this… this only had disastrous consequences. And from here on out, destiny was lying in wait for Geralt to make his move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the next chapter will definitely be up tomorrow!!!!


	3. It Hurts To Remember

They had passed through a town, and it had shaken Jaskier in a way he couldn’t describe. The way the townspeople had looked at them… Not just at Geralt, no, it was more than that. As if they recognised _him_ and wanted him dead. But he was sure he hadn’t passed through this particular town before, those people had no reason to hate him. So, he shrugged it off as a coincidence.

Geralt had decided that the strange looks were trouble, and that they would be risking themselves by staying. So they had moved on and decided to make camp in the woods rather than to stay in a tavern. Jaskier had to admit, he was glad for the swift exit from the town.

But he didn’t know _why_.

“Set up camp, I’ll go get food,” Geralt said, as he tied Roach to a tree.

Jaskier withdrew his dagger from his boot, spreading out his arms, grinning. “Come on, you taught me well. Let me try.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, the hint of a smile on his lips. “I barely taught you anything. But go on, I’ll get the fire going.”

With triumph, Jaskier stalked further into the woods. There didn’t seem to be any deer around, but the bushes shook with animals, and as he scouted the area, he realised the rabbits were plentiful. But _fast_. By the time he’d nabbed two rabbits, night had really fallen, and blood coated his fingers. He found a stream to wash the worst of it off, and returned to camp.

What he found was… Nothing. Roach was shaking her head, whinnying loudly, and Jaskier dropped the rabbits, his eyes going wide. Geralt was gone. The fire had been set up, but the flames were dying out from a lack of fuel… There was no sign of him, but there were boot marks in the mud, a scuffle had happened…

Next to the dying flames of the fire, there was a piece of paper rolled up, tied with the ribbon Geralt used for his hair. Jaskier inhaled sharply, wanting nothing more than to wake from this ridiculous dream. If this was what he thought, why would someone take Geralt and not him?

He knelt down and took the paper into his hands, slipping the ribbon off and unrolling it. His whole life crumbled in an instant.

_‘Bard,_

_We know who you are, but does your poor White Wolf?_

_How long will you live a lie? You’re no bard, not a nobleman, and yet..._

_Everyone believes you to be._

_We know because you were here, thirteen years ago, and you never got rid of our monsters. Ran off with our coin and never came back._

_People died and it’s your fault._

_Now you will feel the wrath of the mercenaries we have hired to kidnap your witcher. Who knows what will happen if you don’t reach him in time?_

_He’s in the mayor’s house of Murivel, underground._

_Hurry, little bard, or you might lose everything, just as we did.’_

Jaskier had no idea what that meant, but he crumpled up the paper anyhow and threw it into the fire. Anger ran through him at the implication that he had run off with their coin, but he didn’t know why. They were quite obviously lying. He would never do that, had no problem to rid anyone of, he was no warrior or mercenary... or witcher. He wanted to reach for his sword, to storm off and rescue Geralt but...

He didn’t have a sword, never did. He could fight with one, well enough, somehow, but he didn’t own one.

He looked around the camp, finding that Roach was fine, bags still attached to her. He checked through each one. Nothing was stolen. It didn’t make sense. And to make things all the more confusing, he found Geralt’s swords. Right now, he longed for nothing more than his sheaths at his hips. Like the Humanslayer...

He secured his lute case to Roach and untied her, clambering atop her back.

“Sorry, girl, but we’re going back to Murivel, your owner seems to have gotten himself captured, and I, missed it...”

Roach neighed, throwing her head back.

“Okay, Roach, let’s go.”

He rode hard and fast back to Murivel. Roach didn’t complain about him riding her, and was more than happy to gallop, as if she was just as desperate to rescue Geralt, and she probably was.

Once he got to the town, he noticed a few people on the street curl their noses up at him, and one notable man sneered, a glint of joy in his eye. Well, he knew who was out for revenge at least. But that didn’t explain why they were after him. He had done nothing wrong, hadn’t passed through this town, ever. It didn’t _make_ _sense_.

He stopped at the mayor’s house, hopping off Roach and tying her to a tree near it. He could tell it was the home of the mayor as it was large but humble, except he _knew_ this was the right place. An old instinct, like he had been here, like he’d gotten a job from here…

There was one guard outside. Not a mercenary, if Jaskier was making him out right. He pulled Geralt’s sword from the bag and left the rest of their belongings there, hoping no one would steal them while he was busy. He had _bigger_ fish to worry about. Geralt’s other sword and the bags could be replaced, and Roach would wrangle out of any thief’s hold. She knew how to bite.

He bypassed the guard by climbing over the tall wall instead of trying to sneak through the entrance. Weird, for a mayor to have a wall built around his house, but each to their own.

He snuck through the front door, crouched down and quiet, holding the sword in such a way that it didn’t impact with his stealth. No one seemed to be on the ground floor, so he explored freely, peeking through every door until he found stairs to what he could only presume was a cellar.

Jaskier crept down the stairs, peeking through the railings to find the cellar stocked to the brim with wine, the shelves lining the walls. There was a table against one wall, with guards – mercenaries, crowded around it. Playing Gwent, if he were to guess. The cellar didn’t end there, oh no, as there was an archway, leading into a hallway, with a very clear cell on the other end.

This was a dungeon. Why the _fuck_ did a mayor have a dungeon?

He could just barely see Geralt’s ankles tied to a chair. The feet of another man hovering by him. They were talking...

“He’s just a bard,” Geralt grit out. “What do you expect him to do?”

The mercenary laughed. “The people told us what he is. He fleeced them, thirteen years ago.”

“He would have been sixteen and hadn’t left home yet. Your people have got the wrong man.”

“Or he’s lying to you.”

There was the very distinct sound of flesh being cut into, and Jaskier clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. Geralt made a pained sound, and that was it, all it took for Jaskier to grip the sword harder and rush down the steps. For a second, he stared down the archway, locking eyes with Geralt, who was minutely shaking his head. Then... the mercenaries who’d been crowding the table, stood and withdrew their swords.

They ran at him, and he took calm steps forward, dodging the first attack from one and butting him in the back of his head. He sliced through another mercenary’s middle, calmly grabbing the head of another as he threw him to the shelves of wine, his face smacking off them. Bottles shattered on top of him as he fell to the floor.

He quickly ducked an incoming sword attack from behind, twirling around to stab his sword right through the man’s neck, withdrawing quick to step out of the way from a sword coming down on top of him. He grabbed the mercenary’s arm, slicing his sword through his bicep easily, as if it were air. The arm fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, and he hated how they screamed. To end his misery, he swung the sword right across his stomach.

Jaskier ran at the remaining pair of mercenaries, grabbing the arm of one as he stabbed his sword through the middle of the other. He grabbed the stabbed mercenary’s sword as it slipped from his fingers, and twisted the other guard’s arm around his back, kicking out his legs before he had time to think. Then, he shoved the sword right through the back of his head, twisting it upwards to rip through his skull.

The body collapsed to the floor.

He stood over the corpses, breathing deeply. They should have chosen to run, humans never ran. He turned towards the archway, grabbing Geralt’s sword as he walked slowly over, resting it on his shoulder. The man beside Geralt, with a knife – covered in blood – in his hand, didn’t flinch as he drew near.

But he should have, if he had any knowledge of what Jaskier was capable of at all. Which he clearly didn’t.

As he stepped close to the cell, two people who had been waiting at either end of the hallway came at him.

He ducked at the last second as they ran towards him, and incidentally nearly killed one another with their swords. He twirled up around them, sticking his sword into one’s stomach as he punched the other, grabbing his sword arm and bending it, grasping his hand and shoving it into his chest. He pushed him down and turned away from him as he gargled on his own blood, wounded by his own sword. He withdrew Geralt’s sword from the other mercenary’s stomach and stepped into the cell.

“Back away from him,” Jaskier said, twisting the sword in his hand, “or face death.”

The mercenary was rugged, scars on his face and hands. He’d been through the mill, and he was about to go through a lot more. “You don’t scare me, Jaskier of Oxenfurt. The people told me you’re a coward.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I just killed all your men.”

Quickly, he looked to Geralt. His eyes, lovely and golden, were staring wide at Jaskier. There was blood on his face, cuts from punches, a large slit across his cheek, a long line of blood seeping from his forehead. His armour had been thrown to one corner of the cell, leaving Geralt bare-chested, rope rubbing against his arms. It seemed Jaskier had come just in time, as his chest was clear from blood.

It was strange to see Geralt left so unprotected, while Jaskier had been protected by nothing more than his scaly blue doublet, open to allow for movement, making his stomach vulnerable. He should have had his armour on... Where was it?

The mercenary pressed his knife against Geralt’s throat. “And yet, if you move to kill me, your witcher dies.”

Jaskier felt the fire in his eyes, his chest pulled and constricted as he glared at the man. “You kill him, _you even harm another hair on his head_ , and I will make you beg for death.”

He laughed. “You sound so brave, but you’ve surely lost your touch after a decade of being his bard. Does he know, is he aware?”

“Of what?”

A glint crossed the man’s eye. He withdrew his knife from Geralt’s neck, and Geralt breathed deep, his eyes set on Jaskier, hard and yet... terrified. Maybe of what the man had to say, maybe of what he’d seen Jaskier do. The banquet had been fair enough, no one had died, but the bodies that were strewn across the floor... It must have been a shock, to see a humble bard do that. He didn’t know how he _did_ do that.

The mercenary grinned. “He doesn’t know...”

Jaskier furrowed his brow.

“Oh, this is glorious.” He placed his knife upon Geralt’s arm, that was so securely tied down to the chair, he was unable to move it. “Have you ever wanted to tell him, who you really are?”

He was confused, completely and entirely. He had no idea what the mercenary was referring to.

“I can make him bleed, would you tell him then? When he is on the edge of death? Because you couldn’t save him, I can kill him before you’d reach me.”

The mercenary cut into Geralt’s skin, dragging down, blood poured, Geralt yelled out, and Jaskier _lost_ _it_. He threw his arm out, a blue light casting from the gesture, and the mercenary went flying back to the wall, his back cracking against it.

Jaskier rushed forward, dragging the mercenary to his feet with one hand clasping his clothes. He pushed the tip of the sword to his stomach, sneering in his face.

“What did I say?” he hissed.

The man stared at him with wide eyes. “I forgot about magic.”

“Hm.” He drew back and slashed his face, staring with satisfaction as the mercenary cried in pain. That’s the least he deserved for hurting Geralt. He thrust the sword into his stomach, pushing past the armour like it was nothing but butter. The mercenary clasped the sword with his hands, blood tinting his lips, dripping from his mouth. He withdrew slowly, tilting his head as the mercenary’s hands were sliced on the way out. With one last inch of effort, he swung the sword through his neck, stepping back as the head rolled off from his body, bouncing on the ground.

As the rush of what had happened flood from his body, his eyes widened at what he saw. A head, severed clean, a bleeding body. He turned, finding bodies, death everywhere. Blood covering the place. Blood splattered on his clothes... This was worse, this was so much worse than when he had picked up the sword at the banquet. He took a breath in, eyes slipping to Geralt, who was staring at him like he didn’t know him at all, like he never had...

Jaskier let his sword slip from his fingers, clinking off the ground.

“I...”

“You lied...”

Jaskier picked up the knife that had clattered to the floor when he’d... Gods. Ignoring that, he cut the rope that was tying Geralt down. It was thick and heavy, nasty stuff. He cut it from his ankles, arms, and wrists. He swivelled on his heel once he was done, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t lie. I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t me.”

He heard Geralt standing, rubbing at his wrists. “You’re a witcher... You used a _witcher Sign_ , Jaskier. How do you think you can fool me now?!”

“I’m not fooling you!” With a yell he threw the knife against the wall and turned, facing Geralt, breathing hard and heavy. “I’ve known, since I can remember that I _am_ Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, son of the Count and Countess de Lettenhove! I’m _not_ a witcher.”

Geralt sucked in a breath, approaching Jaskier slowly, reaching out, placing his hand at his shoulder. His eyes roamed his face, catching his line of sight. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me.”

“Thirteen years ago, you did something, _here_.” Geralt was concerned, it was written all over his face. His eyes slightly wide, his mouth pinched. “Fleeced the townspeople. Now, I believe you to be better than that. You wouldn’t leave people in need, wouldn’t flee. Did you lose yourself here? You must have lost your memories…”

“No…” Jaskier shook his head, again and again. “That can’t be _true_!”

Geralt sighed. “The Count and Countess must have done this to you.” His grip tightened, his eyes searched his face. “You just have to find your real memories.”

“I. Don’t... remember.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “I have flashes, sometimes. Fragments of memories that aren’t right but _are_.”

“What do you see?”

“A mountain, practicing with a lute. Coën’s there, young with his yellow-green eyes and his silly chicken pox scars.” Jaskier smiled slightly. “I... I had a medallion.” He clutched at his chest, it wasn’t there, hadn’t been for years. “Where is it?” His voice came out shaky, he stared up at Geralt. “Where’s my medallion?”

Geralt squeezed his shoulder. “You really can’t remember?”

“No.”

“What memories do you have?”

“Of being a viscount, of growing up as a noble.” He shook his head. “I know they feel wrong, that there’s never a memory on my own but... they’re all I can remember.”

“What will help?”

Jaskier glanced around. “Let’s just... get out of here. I, uh, can’t be– I killed all these people, Geralt. _Me_.”

“Okay, we’ll talk when we find somewhere safe to stay.” Geralt gave a reassuring look, his eyes gentle. “Far from this town.”

Jaskier nodded, and Geralt left him, ripping a piece of fabric from the mercenary’s dead body and wrapping up his arm haphazardly. He retrieved his shirt and pulled it on, settling his armour over the top of it. Picking up his sword, he returned to Jaskier, guiding him out, hand on his shoulder. Jaskier twisted his face away from the bodies, the people he had killed like it was normal, as if he did this every day. It came so naturally to him, from the way he moved, to the way he taunted and talked.

Before long, they were riding upon Roach. With Jaskier resting back against Geralt’s chest, and Geralt holding him in place, while Roach galloped fast along the roads. She had been so concerned for them, neighing loud when they had returned.

Lack of sleep caught up to them quickly as they rode hard, and it caught up to Roach too. After all, they had only left the town that morning, only to find themselves back there at night. They hadn’t gotten too far, with Jaskier walking by Roach’s side, strumming his lute. But far enough that Roach was exhausted with all the exercise, and so were they.

Eventually, they stopped as light poked through the darkness of the early morning. They set up camp, building a small fire, but nothing more than that. They hadn’t eaten, and they didn’t dare leave one another’s sights, just in case. Those mercenaries may have not been the only ones the townspeople had hired. They hunted together, nabbing a few rabbits to cook on the fire.

Once they’d eaten, Jaskier redressed the wound on Geralt’s arm with real bandages. It wasn’t bad, but it had been bleeding, so it was best to be careful. They settled down on their bedrolls after, and Geralt looked to Jaskier, as concerned as before.

“They were trying to draw you out,” he said. “Any idea why?”

“They left a letter, referring to that event thirteen years ago. I left and took their coin without killing their monster, and many of their people died. That’s why they took you, to hurt me.” Jaskier shook his head. “But that isn’t like me, there must have been a misunderstanding, but I can’t remember it.”

Geralt frowned and nodded. “I know you wouldn’t do that.” He stared at Jaskier for a long moment. “Is it possible... that you are the Humanslayer?”

Jaskier closed his eyes, seeing nothing but the bodies he’d stood over. “I know too much about him not to be...”

Geralt’s eyes suddenly widened, his hand grasped Jaskier’s upper arm. “You said it, in your song. You said what happened to you.”

Jaskier parted his lips slowly, inhaling deeply. He looked to Geralt, realisation dawning. “I fell off a cliff, let myself fall back.” There was a memory, a flash, a feeling of falling back, of the wind in his hair... The impact. “I should be dead.”

“Someone saved you.”

“My ‘parents’ said a mage healed me.”

Geralt gave a nod. “Then that’s where we start. With your parents and that mage.”

Jaskier drew one leg up to his chest. “Do you think I’ll get my memory back?”

“It seems as if you’re getting there on your own.”

“I don’t want to be a witcher...”

Geralt wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to his side. “None of us did.”

He pressed his forehead against his knee, feeling much too emotional about it. “I always wanted to sing... Coën encouraged me but we both knew I could never be a bard... These years, where I had forgotten, they have been the best.” He raised his head, gazing into Geralt’s eyes. “But these years would have been worthless without you.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“You made me famous. I’d still have bread chucked at me without you.” He huffed a laugh, wetly. “I just... When I remember, I’ll know all the blood on my hands, I’ll know what I’ve done, all the regrets... I’ll remember the screams and smoke of the Great Cleansing... All of it, everything, the pain I always wished I could forget.”

Geralt placed his hand at Jaskier’s cheek, pulling his head softly against his chest. He went easily, curling against him, listening to his steady heartbeat. “Do you want to remember?”

“I have to... but I’m scared... If I lose those childhood memories, will I lose myself? Will you recognise me still? I could be entirely different.”

“No. No... Jaskier, I know you. You can’t change that much.”

“I don’t know who I am, how can I expect you to know me?” His voice had gone quiet, thick with his sorrow.

Geralt stroked his fingers into his hair, soothing his scalp. “Because you won’t lose the memories of our time together. I _know_ you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier frowned, staring at the ground. He was cold and scared… Finding out like that, finding out he had memories that he couldn’t quite reach… “I’m not ready to go home yet. Can we continue north still?”

Geralt stroked his arm, as if he was warming him up more than comforting him. “Yes, we can. Anything that you need, Jaskier, just tell me.”

“I will…” He closed his eyes. “I need… you. Tell me it’s going to be alright.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt pulled him closer, “it will be alright.”

“G– Good…”

“Rest, Jask, it’s been a long night.”

And so he did, dropping off to sleep in Geralt’s arms. Warm and safe, despite all that had happened.

\--

They were heading along the paths at the bottom of the Dragon Mountains, more on the coastal side, when a vague feeling hit Jaskier right in the chest, nearly tripping him up. It was strong, overpowering, and… Yes, he knew what this was. The memories flashed before his eyes.

Of travelling with his– He clenched his jaw. To leaving this region… swords at his sides.

“Wait, stop, I know this place…” Jaskier said, stepping off the main path, and onto the beaten up one. “This is the home of griffin witchers.”

Geralt slipped off Roach. “Do you think anyone will be in the keep?”

“No... It’s not winter.” He shook his head, ridding himself of overwhelming thoughts. “Let’s get to the next town. I– I can’t be here.”

“Won’t it spark memories?”

“I’m not ready. It’s already overwhelming.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “Kaer Seren... My only home, because Lettenhove abandoned me. My father abandoned me.”

“You’re... from the same region as your false memories?”

“I was the son of a viscount.” Jaskier rubbed his arms. “I’m remembering... small pieces. I think, here, it’s bringing them back.”

Geralt was suddenly at his side, hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get to the next town and you can rest there.”

Jaskier nodded and allowed himself to be guided, to open his eyes and not be swamped by his mind.

When they reached the nearest town (it was more of a village), Jaskier was withdrawn, tired from the memories poking at his skull. He could feel them, his true and very real memories, but they were distant and came in short bursts. He didn’t know how to access them all, how to make the other fake ones go away. They needed the mage for that... he presumed.

He was a witcher, he couldn’t very well keep memories of a life that wasn’t his own. Even if it was a life he could have had... He knew from instinct more than memories that his father was a viscount, noble, that his father’s brother was a count, that he’d been a child of a long line of nobles.

They set up Roach in the tavern’s stable and walked in. There was a tense air to the room as they approached the bar. Wariness, possibly because of Geralt, maybe because of him... Who knew, this close to the place he’d come from, he wouldn’t doubt the people here knew of him in some shape or form.

They ordered two ales and sat in the corner, huddled quite close, because Jaskier was nervous and scared and there were memories... from his real life.

A girl stood up, with flowing brown hair, and pointed right towards him. “It’s the Humanslayer!”

The girl’s mother, Jaskier guessed, tugged on her arm, bringing her back down to her seat. “He’s a bard, sweetie, not the Humanslayer, he doesn’t have any swords, you see. The man next to him is the White Wolf, he’s the witcher.”

The people in the tavern tensed again, but didn’t so much as look towards them. Maybe they were scared, maybe they didn’t believe the girl. After all, in his current wares, he didn’t look like a witcher, ready to defend, just a bard, ready to sing.

Another vague recollection pushed at his mind... A tale, a warning... ‘Beware of the witcher, with his icy cornflower blue eyes, his brown hair, and his showy swords, for he is The Humanslayer, and if he judges you, to be guilty, you’ll be slain too.’

He shook it from his mind. The girl had seen his eyes and his hair and had judged _him_. Others didn’t seem to agree, but some had their beady eyes on them now.

A man, wearing a cloak, the hood sitting half off his head, stood up, and walked straight towards them. He didn’t look threatening, but he did have a sword upon his hip and at his back. As he neared, Jaskier could see the way his yellow-green bloodshot eyes glowed, and he knew, he knew exactly who this was... There was such a familiar feel to him, something deep within, home.

“When I heard a bard was travelling with Geralt of Rivia, I never expected that it would be you, Jaskier!” The man laughed heartily.

Coën.

Jaskier’s oldest and first friend. Even though that statement still didn’t feel right in his head, he knew there was nothing else Coën could be.

“I... know you, but I don’t,” Jaskier said, staring at him, hoping he could understand.

A frown settled upon Coën’s brow. “What do you mean? Jaskier, it’s me, Coën...”

“I know your name, I know we grew up together, I know... But my memories were replaced, and I hardly remember you at all.”

Coën stepped back, as if to catch himself. His hand clasped around the hilt of the sword at his hip. “Who did this to you? Who _dared_ to take your memories from you?”

Jaskier glanced away, shaking his head. “We believe it was the Count and Countess de Lettenhove...”

Coën dragged a chair from another table, sitting down and leaning over, catching Jaskier’s eyesight. “How much do you remember, of your life, your _real_ life?”

“Not much... Fragments.”

“Right... I need you to listen to me carefully, can you do that without interrupting?”

Oh, so that hadn’t changed.

Jaskier stared into his eyes, letting comfort wash over him. “I can...”

Coën gave a nod. “You were my first friend at Kaer Seren, and I was yours. We called you buttercup because you were always braiding flowers into our hair, buttercups were your favourite. So you chose to be called Jaskier, instead of Julian. You knew your name because you were a young child when you were abandoned, unlike many of us who had been left on Kaer Seren’s doorstep as babies.” He frowned at him. “Who do you think you are?”

“I... thought I was Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, son of the Count and Countess de Lettenhove. I went to Oxenfurt when I was sixteen and left at eighteen with a degree, becoming a travelling bard... That’s who I am.”

“You are Julian Pankratz, but that’s not your middle name.” Coën scooted closer, hanging his head. “You used to shout at night that you were a viscount’s son, that it was a mistake that you’d been left at Kaer Seren, that your father would never leave you to become a witcher. I helped you get through it. We would sneak out at night and sit on the mountain grass, and you would steal the lute from Erland’s room.” He looked to Geralt with humour upon his lips. “Erland had been given the lute after a quest. Something about dragons and wealthy villagers giving him it as a gift. He kept it, gods know why, never used it either. Jaskier stole it every night and practised playing.”

Jaskier tipped is head back, staring up at the ceiling. “I remember, the mountain, the views... But it conflicts with the false memory, where I learnt in the manor, and Count Colart showed me how to hold it properly.”

Coën thinned his lips. “Why would the Count and Countess replace your memories...?” He went to grasp Jaskier’s arm, probably to comfort him, or to brace him, but Jaskier shuffled closer to Geralt. It was too much, too much. He wanted this to stop. This had to stop! “Jaskier... Colart is your cousin. You’re his grandfather’s brother’s son.”

Jaskier scrunched his eyes up, a tingle shooting through him. Memories burst into his mind like a wall of magic was breaking, like he was beginning to see what his life had been, what was true. “My father was William Pankratz. The bastard hated me because my mother died in childbirth. When I was six he... left me on the doorstep of Kaer Seren. I cried for him on many nights, until you comforted me and persuaded me to let the bastard go. So, I did, and I trained, hard, too hard, got myself hurt... Then I survived the Trials and I was let loose. When I was eighteen, the Great Cleansing happened, and I cut down so many humans I became known as the Humanslayer.” He inhaled deeply, looking to Coën with wide eyes. “How do they know that name here? It happened in Dol Blathanna.”

Coën glanced over his shoulder, as if he was keeping an eye on those around them. “The tales travelled far, and this is our home... You didn’t just slay humans in the Great Cleansing, Jaskier, you killed more humans than you ever did monsters.” He looked down at the table, resting his arm upon it. “When the earth burnt in Dol Blathanna, you were there, killing. You saved as many elves as you could. But it didn’t end there. If a single human threatened a so called monster that wasn’t harming anyone, you cut them down. If a human was trying to hurt someone, murder them, rape them, or whatever else, you slayed them.” He looked to him now. “You have sung about the White Wolf for years, telling the world he’s a friend of humanity, when you yourself, have never cared much for humans.”

“I... That isn’t me.”

“Oh it is, Jaskier. You’ve always defended those who were prosecuted.”

Geralt cleared his throat, wrapping an arm around Jaskier as he shuffled closer. “I think that’s enough. He’s already overwhelmed, Coën.”

Coën thinned his lips, nodding. “At least tell me one thing...”

Jaskier bit at his lip, gesturing for him to continue.

“What happened, for what must have been a mage to get their hands on you?”

The cliff formed in his mind, clearer than before, possibly because Coën’s words had coaxed his memories to the forefront of his mind. It had been dark... and there had been... bruxa. “I was– I was injured... Had started a fight expecting one bruxa, and instead encountered seven. I took down four before my injury from the first got to me. Three bruxae were advancing on me and I didn’t want them feasting on my corpse. The wound was large, bad, an open gaping hole… I was going to die anyway, so I jumped off a cliff instead.” He smiled, bitterly. “I chose to die that night, because I didn’t want to be another witcher that had gotten slow...”

“But you didn’t die,” Geralt murmured. “Someone saved you, and you lived.”

“With false memories put in place so people could pretend I was someone else,” Jaskier said, bitterness clear in his voice.

Coën tilted his head. “Why did they take you?”

Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s hold, needing comfort, needing something to warm him in the cold that was his mind. “When I woke up, when everything felt wrong, I had ‘recovered’ from an illness. I have Julian’s memory, of him closing his eyes for the last time, weak from a disease, alone in his room. Anyone would have been too late to save him. They used the excuse that a mage had saved me.”

“When really,” Coën began, eyes angry, “a mage had stolen all that you are.”

“They must have found me, decided I looked similar enough, and had the mage insert memories into my mind, that were from Julian’s perspective.” He shrugged. “No false memory has me on my own.”

Coën nodded, understanding. “The mage used Colart and Isouda’s memories of Julian and morphed them to be from his perspective.” He twisted his lips. “Impressive, but dangerous.”

“Can we stop now?” Jaskier fiddled with the hem of his doublet at his wrist. “It’s too much. Too many conflicting memories.” He closed his eyes. “I can see both childhoods.”

Geralt held him closer. “We need to find that mage, he needs to remove those fake memories.”

“I... need space. I need time. I need this not to be real and happening because...” He clenched his jaw, tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t want to be the Humanslayer.”

“You were proud of the title,” Coën said. “The only thing you ever regretted about it was that you didn’t save more elves, because you were worried about being called a butcher...” He briefly glanced to Geralt, then back to Jaskier. “And yet, it didn’t matter. So you embraced who you became known to be, and people feared you for it.” He looked away. “I suppose you do not have to be who you were, if you don’t want to be.”

“I... I don’t know who I will be once my memories are restored.”

Geralt laid his fingers upon Jaskier’s chin, tilting his head upwards. He stared into his eyes, expression open. “You’ll be you, and that is all that matters.”

Coën hummed. “You’re too _you_ not to be you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nodded. “I’ll take both your words for it...” He gazed into Geralt’s eyes, almost pleading. “Can we... go?”

Geralt nodded gently, stroking his hand down Jaskier’s arm. “Of course.”

Coën looked between Jaskier and Geralt, his lips pulled upwards. “I didn’t realise you two were... lovers.”

“We’re not,” Jaskier and Geralt said at the same time. They furrowed their brows at each other, and confusion was surely written on both their faces.

“Oh, I just... Hm. Just good friends then?”

“Yes,” Geralt replied easily.

“Well, support my friend, Geralt.” Coën shot another glance over his shoulder. “I’d suggest getting out of here before more blood is shed. The people, they’re angry – have a monster they’ve hired me to kill – and that little girl did not help.” He stood. “Jaskier, when our paths cross again, I hope to see the real you shining bright.”

“I hope so too, Coën.”

He gave a nod and pulled his hood fully over his head, whisking back through the tavern, and up the stairs. They did take his advice, leaving themselves after that. Geralt let Jaskier up on Roach, and they rode far from that town, so far that the night was in full bloom by the time they decided to settle down and make camp in the trees. Jaskier knew they were close to another village, but they hardly wanted to push Roach too much in one day...

Besides, around here, Jaskier wasn’t sure how the people would react to him. And he already felt sick with memories, with the knowledge that who he was, who he was known to be, didn’t come from the Great Cleansing alone. That he had embraced the title. It felt wrong in ways, but in others, it was right. Because if there was no one to defend those who were seen as monsters then...

If anything, it related to Geralt and his view of evil. The lesser evil... And not making a choice at all.

Except Jaskier must have been the opposite. To decide to make that choice, regardless. Lesser or greater, he clearly didn’t care.

“We have to go to my hometown, we don’t have a choice now,” he said as he sat upon his bedroll. He stared at his lute as if it didn’t mean anything to him anymore. He was so... lost.

“Do you think the mage will be there?”

“After I woke up, a mage moved into the town, close to the manor. Galen. I don’t suppose he has left.” He shrugged. “He could be the mage we need.”

“Then we’ll go to him first.” Geralt sat beside him. “How are you?”

“I’m lost, confused, hurt. Coën said a lot of things and I’m _terrified by them_.” Jaskier looked to Geralt, eyes pleading. “Is it me, is it _like_ me to want people dead?”

Geralt thinned his lips. “I think you helped people during a traumatic event at such a young age, that it impacted who you became as a witcher. I think because of what you saw, you would hold humans to account. _And_ I think you’re still kind beneath all that.” He placed his hand on Jaskier’s knee, warm and gentle. Kind. “Whoever you are now, and whoever you are with your memories, they’re both you. And if you no longer want to be seen as the Humanslayer, you can change that, as you changed the public’s opinion about me.”

Jaskier drew in a breath, curling one leg up to his chest. He looped his arms around it, resting his chin on his knee. “I’ll have a different perspective, once I get my memories back, I know that… I just don’t want to drag you down with me if they see me as _that_.”

“We’re witchers, Jask, they’ll all drag us down anyway.”

He hummed, saddened. “Coën reminded me of one thing though…”

Geralt caught his eyesight. “What?”

“My name, why I chose it. Buttercups are my most beloved flower, hence Jaskier.” He smiled. “I will _never_ be called Julian again.”

Geralt shifted closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Then I will forget about you ever saying your supposed real name. Jaskier is the name you chose, that means more than a given name ever could.”

Jaskier leant into his touch. “It does. I can’t wait to be free of my family once more.”

“They will _never_ get their hands on you again.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

“I can, Jaskier. I promise it. You’re safe with me.” Geralt’s eyes burnt with a fire he hadn’t seen before.

“I’m…” He stared at his eyes, into them, feeling a comfort. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Geralt glanced away for a moment. “Me too.”

Jaskier smiled, and he did indeed feel _safe_.

\--

When Jaskier and Geralt stepped into Galen’s home, he was surprised with how full of potions it was. Cabinets full of the things. He was a healer... With the herbs, the potions, the bed out in the open. Spare clothes, bandages, cloths. Why would a healer do this to him?

The look on Galen’s face when he glanced up from his potion making was priceless. The colour drained from his face, his lips parted.

“Julian...”

“No,” Jaskier said, firm.

Galen swallowed, nodding. “I didn’t expect it to take this long, not after I heard you were travelling with Geralt of Rivia.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I know you go by Jaskier, but no. However, I know you’re a witcher, of the griffin school.” Galen raised a finger. “I’ll be right back.” He ducked into the nearest door, and a few moments later, returned with a medallion in his hand. _His_ medallion. “I kept it, for the day your memories returned.”

Jaskier snatched it out of his hand, quickly putting it on. The weight of it... It was familiar and comforting and everything he needed right now. To continue on with this, to have it sitting upon his chest, was a blessing.

“Remove the fake memories,” Jaskier said, clutching the medallion. “I need to be me again. Not what you made me think I was, or what they wanted me to be.”

Galen gave a nod. “Of course... I never wanted to do it, but they offered me a life.”

Geralt harshly humphed. “You took a witcher’s memories. We have so little to call our own, our memories are all we have, and you took _his_.”

“I know, and I will regret it for the rest of my life. But I can fix it.” Galen gestured to the bed. “You’ll need to lie down, the suddenness of having an entire childhood removed will knock you out cold.”

Jaskier heaved in a breath, and walked over to the bed, setting his lute down beside it before sitting on the edge. He... was scared. Terrified even. Geralt approached him, kneeling down in front of him. He squeezed his knee, a sincere look in his eye.

“You’ll be okay, Jask.”

“Promise to like whoever I am...?”

Geralt smiled. “You’re my friend. I’ll always will be at your side.”

Jaskier nodded, smiling tightly.

“Lie back,” Galen said. “And if you will, step away, Geralt.”

Geralt stood and moved back, against the wall behind him. Jaskier swung his legs up and lay back, closing his eyes softly. He didn’t want to see, didn’t want to acknowledge what was about to happen. If he did, it would overwhelm him in an instant.

“I’m going to press my fingers against your temple, Jaskier. It will hurt, but when you wake, your memories should be with you,” Galen said gently.

“Okay...” He inhaled roughly, sighing out.

He felt Galen’s fingertips against his temple, and in the next moment, all he knew was pain. Geralt was shouting, but he could hardly hear him over his own screams, over the crushing weight inside his head. Galen was telling Geralt to get back, or risk Jaskier’s memories getting scrambled. He wasn’t quite sure what happened after that, but the shouting stopped.

His screaming didn’t, however.

Then, the world went black.

\--

_Coën laughed, as bright as he had ever heard him. Jaskier hadn’t laughed much since being abandoned at Kaer Seren, but Coën laughing brought a smile to his lips. He knocked his friend’s shoulder and nodded to the expanse before them._

_“I’m serious, we’ll make the public change their minds,” he said._

_“Jaskier, **if** we survive, we’ll be **witchers**. We’ve been hated since the first were created.”_

_Jaskier shrugged. “I believe in us. We’re kind, we can change their minds.”_

_“I’m not sure.” Coën looped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. “Come on, we didn’t steal Erland’s lute for nothing. Play a tune.”_

_Jaskier grinned and pulled the lute back into his lap, strumming a few chords. He’d been practising for years now. Four to be exact. He’d gained quite the skill._

_“Abandoned and alone,  
The witchers fought on,  
Left by their families,  
The witchers prevailed,  
For they were the children,  
No one wanted,  
Until their mentors showed them love,  
Showed them harshness,  
And taught them how to survive,  
In a world of monsters,  
Knowing deep down,  
That they would become,  
What they had to kill.”_

_“That was... haunting,” Coën whispered._

_“Sorry...”_

_“No, it’s true.”_

_Jaskier bit at his lips, mind elsewhere. “Yeah.”_

_With a sigh, Coën stood. “Time to get back, before they realise we know how to sneak out.”_

_He softly scoffed, standing up and swinging the lute onto his shoulder. “I’ll race you.”_

_Coën rolled his eyes. “Fine, then, but you’ll lose. You always do.”_

_Jaskier stuck out his tongue. “Three?”_

_“Two. One!”_

_And they went off running, through the mountain grasses, laughing their heads off. There was joy to be had, growing up in Kaer Seren. Even if they knew the Trials were looming, that their possible deaths were on the horizon._

_Years later, Jaskier would stare at Coën’s eyes before hugging him tight. It had been a promise, to tell each other what had changed, and what was the same._

_“They’re yellow-green,” he whispered. “Bright and beautiful, but bloodshot.”_

_And Coën whispered back, “Yours are blue now, icy, but like cornflowers. Too vibrant for a natural blue, but normal enough.”_

_“You look the same.”_

_“So do you.”_

_Jaskier smiled. “We lived.”_

_Coën hugged even tighter. “We did.”_

\--

Jaskier opened his eyes and stretched. Gods... How long had it been since he’d felt like himself? Thirteen... years. Fuck. He could feel remnants of the false memories, tied up in the memories he’d gained over the last decade. But he knew himself now. Remembered his childhood, growing up with Coën. The – shit – the Great Cleansing. All that blood on his hands from protecting elves.

All the blood on his hands for protecting many more people than that. Not just monsters, but monsters that came in the form of humans. The real horror of the world was what could be done to people, to make them hurt, to change them, to turn them, to... make them into someone they should never be.

Of course the Pankratz Family would take him, looking like their son, even though he was a far cry from it. The same sort of genetics in his blood, just the right amount to be changed, to take him as their own.

The fact that they had done it to a witcher suggested they had balls. But Jaskier didn’t care for all that now, because as soon as he was ready, he was leaving this town and never coming back. It hadn’t been his home as a child, and it wasn’t his home now.

“Jaskier...” Geralt whispered, appearing at the edge of the bed. “You’re awake.”

He groaned, sitting up. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Better than good.” He smiled. “I’m myself.”

Geralt smiled softly and sat on the bed, staring down at the ground. “And am I your... friend?”

“Of course you are. More than anyone else. We’ve travelled together on and off for eleven years, Geralt. Those memories have not changed just because I know the truth of my history.” He moved to sit beside Geralt, grasping his hand and squeezing tight. “I know the blood on my hands, I know what I’ve done and all I regret, but you, my dear friend, are everything I was missing in my life before.”

Geralt leant closer to him, barely by an inch, but it was noticeable. “And what were you missing?”

Jaskier hoped to all the gods that he was interpreting this correctly. He cupped Geralt’s cheek and gazed into his eyes. “Love.”

Geralt’s breath hitched. Slowly, he covered Jaskier’s hand with his own. “Which kind of love?”

“You know which kind...”

Geralt closed his eyes, a smile brushing his lips. “Why?”

Jaskier scooted closer and pressed his forehead against Geralt’s. He could understand the confusion, the insecurity, but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, not really. “I could give you a thousand reasons why, but they could never explain it, not really. All I know is that, I feel, so much, for you, and I love you deeply.”

“And I feel for _you_ , love you _too_ ,” Geralt whispered, joy lacing his tone.

Jaskier smiled, ever so gently. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

He tilted his head, capturing Geralt’s lips. A sweetness seemed to overtake them, with soft touches reeling each other in, and their lips slotting together like they belonged there. Jaskier curled his hand around the back of Geralt’s neck, holding him gently as they traded the softest kisses he’d ever experienced. Not that he’d experienced many in his time. But, _this_ , after so long, it was everything and naught all wrapped up into one, effortless and yet, _so much_ too.

Jaskier smiled as he broke away, before either of them could get too excited in Galen’s house. “I could do that all day…”

“Me too.” Geralt tightened his grip on Jaskier’s waist, where his hand had fallen to as they’d kissed. He smiled, slightly, eyes almost vulnerable. “But I understand, not _here_.”

“Yeah.” He pulled back more so, standing. “Ready?”

Geralt nodded, standing as well. “Let’s go.”

Galen, who suddenly reappeared in the room, almost like he’d known to give them space, stood tall. Like he had any right to be proud or whatever else right now. He should have had his tail tucked between his legs, should have been ashamed. “I suppose you’re off then.”

Jaskier tensed. “We have no reason to stay.” He collected up his lute as Geralt picked up their bags. “Thank you, for restoring my memories.” He clenched his fist. “If you see the Count and Countess anytime soon, tell them they made monsters out of themselves.”

“That’s harsh,” Galen said. “They were grieving.”

“That’s _not_ an excuse.” Jaskier headed to the door, pushing his way out. Geralt followed closely behind. It felt good, to have fresh air on his skin now that he had his memories back… It was, it was like the first time he’d left Kaer Seren, it was a new start, a new adventure.

“What will you do now?” Geralt asked as they walked towards Roach. “Will you continue being a bard?”

Jaskier grinned. “I don’t have to give up my dream of being a bard just because I know I’m a witcher. I can do both.” He nudged Geralt with his elbow. “Think of how formidable we’ll be, fighting together. I’ll never get overwhelmed again.”

“Good. We don’t want the same thing happening to you after all.”

“I doubt that will ever happen again, but, stranger things have happened.” He smiled, feeling the glow on his cheeks. “We need to stop by a stable, I have a horse I need to buy.”

Geralt secured their bags to Roach. “And what horse will you be getting?”

“A white gelding. They’re always that.”

“What will you call him?”

“Well, I’m more creative than you...” He thinned his lips. “I think I’ll go for Pegasus this time.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “Pegasus?”

“It’s better than naming all my horses Roach, Geralt.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier folded his arms, a chuckle upon his lips. “ _Hm_ , he says, as if he doesn’t know how sentimental he is.”

Geralt hopped up onto Roach. “It’s a good name.” He offered his hand, and Jaskier raised his eyebrows, to which Geralt rolled his eyes. “Come on.”

With a grin, Jaskier took his hand, and climbed onto Roach’s back. He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s middle, hooking his head over his shoulder. “Are we going to ride off and be all that we are?”

Geralt smiled slightly. “Let’s get you Pegasus, and then you can show me whatever gods awful showy armour you wear.”

He barked a laugh, he’d hit the mark there. The colours he wore, the way the armour was styled… it was far too fine for a witcher to go for really, but then, he was _like that_. “Gods awful? You wound me.”

With a chuckle, Geralt urged Roach into a walk. “Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s fashion.” Jaskier squeezed his stomach. “Admit it, you like my style.”

Geralt hummed. “It suits your personality.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” he mocked with a smile. “Although, I think I’ll be more colourful now, fancier, compared to before.”

“You’ll make monsters think you’re poisonous.”

“ _That’s a good plan_.”

Geralt laughed, joy ringing through it. “We’ll see how that pans out.”

Jaskier laughed along with him, feeling a kind of brightness he hadn’t experienced since, well, ever really. “It’ll be wonderful, us, fighting together.”

“It will be,” Geralt said, so soft, so gentle, even though they were talking about fighting monsters.

They kept exchanging quips, going between half insulting and genuinely funny. The ride was… quite lovely. With him pressed up against Geralt, with them talking so freely, with Roach chiming in with snorts. It was… perfect. Poetic almost. Maybe he’d make a song of new beginnings in a life thought lost, with a new love budding between long term companions, old friends.

Jaskier closed his eyes as the sun began to set and hummed, feeling nothing but safe, and feeling truly _himself_ , in the best way.

\--

Jaskier rolled out of the way, twirling violently around. He’d managed to just barely avoid the swipe of the griffin’s claws. He twisted his sword, resettling it in his hands, it’s vibrant hilt glinted bright in the sunset. Rushing towards it, Geralt scrambled onto its back, and as Jaskier slashed at its ankles, Geralt stabbed right into its middle.

Jaskier continued his attack, swiping up to cut its wing. Geralt stayed steady on its back, holding onto his sword as the griffin thrashed, trying to get away from the pain, but Jaskier brutally tore through its wing.

It wouldn’t be flying away anytime soon.

He spun around, stabbing his sword through its leg, slipping it out like it was easy. The griffin fell down, bracing itself on its intact wing. He rushed back to face it, staring it down like it should have been looking at its maker, or its reaper.

“Come on, you unruly beast,” He smiled, “just one last tug and your suffering will be over.”

Geralt withdrew his sword and stabbed its back again, further up, and Jaskier smirked, tossing his sword to his other hand. He skidded close to the griffin as it tried to pull away from the attack, from the pain in its back, and with one fluid movement, he thrusted his sword up into its neck. Blood spurted from it, and Jaskier narrowly avoided it (couldn’t ruin the colours of his armour just yet). As he pulled his sword out, the griffin fell limp, and Geralt brought his sword down hard on its neck, dropping down from its back, dragging his sword cleanly through.

The head thudded to the ground as the body slipped sideways. Jaskier sheathed his sword and rolled his shoulders with a grin, as Geralt blew out a breath, shaking his head.

“You’re taking the back next time,” he murmured.

Jaskier lit up. “Gladly.” He whistled, loud and clear. Pegasus appeared out of nowhere, with Roach at his side. Those two got on well, and Roach had trained Pegasus on how to stay still and stay near, to listen for their whistle.

Geralt headed over to Roach and pulled out a sack, tossing it to Jaskier. He caught it and approached the griffin’s head, scrunching his nose up at it. This part, he’d always hated it, but proof was necessary too often. Humans just couldn’t _possibly_ trust witchers to get the job done, now could they?

Jaskier threw the head into the sack, heading over to Pegasus to sling it over his back. “Who knew griffins could be so awful?”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “Aren’t griffins your speciality?”

“Now, that’s just a tale, a myth.” He swung himself up on to Pegasus. “But I have killed my fair amount.”

“Hm.”

“And _besides_ , Geralt, that’s like saying because you come from the wolf school, you go around killing the entire wolf population.”

Geralt climbed onto Roach, urging her into a walk. “Fair point.”

Jaskier hummed and they went galloping back into town. They happily deposited the head on the mayor’s doorstep and knocked upon the door. One of the guards gave them their coin, gagging at the stench and sight of the head.

“You can’t take that with you?” the guard asked.

Jaskier shrugged. “Deal with it yourself. We brought proof, that’s all.” He smiled, in that way he did when he couldn’t be arsed with humans. Geralt had told him it was the equivalent to his scary face. “We’re witchers, not your cleaners.” He pulled Geralt along with him and they left the mayor’s house behind.

“You don’t have to scare them all the time, you know,” Geralt said as they headed down the streets.

Jaskier laughed, shaking his head. “You’re the nice one. I’m still and always will be the Humanslayer, I love to embrace my reputation.”

“They don’t seem to mind when you play.”

“That’s because they forget who I am when I play.” He grinned. “One of us has to scare them more, and I’ll happily take up that role, since you’re the friend of humanity.”

Geralt smiled. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.”

They made their way into the tavern, and Jaskier felt at home with the smell of wine and ale, of endless chatter and the mess that establishments like this always seemed to be in. A constant state of peace and the calm before the storm. They grabbed a bottle of Est Est and made their way upstairs, to their room.

When they opened the door, Ciri jumped up from where she’d been reading a book by the fireplace. A book on magic (one which had once had a home in Kaer Seren before the attack. Jaskier had taken the tomes that had survived and hidden them in Oxenfurt).

“You’re back.” She smiled. “How did it go?”

“Good?” Jaskier said, walking over to one of the beds, sitting on the edge. “It took some time, but no griffin can best two witchers.” He tugged his boots off and stretched his toes. “We got paid well.”

“That’s good, I guess.” She folded her arms. Oh no… “Now will you tell me when we’re going back to Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt pursed his lips. “It’s not winter quite yet.”

“I miss having the space to train.”

“You’ll get that space when it’s time, Ciri.” Jaskier tilted his head, mulling over the half thought in his mind for a moment. “Or, we could take you to Yennefer again.”

“Yes!”

Geralt sighed and joined Jaskier on the bed. “I don’t think she’s ready for you right now, not after the strain of last time. You are a handful. And we’re supposed to give her time with Istredd, remember?”

Ciri placed her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on, a handful, me?” She smirked. “I’m sixteen now, she can teach me the orgy spell.”

Jaskier put his head in his hands. “Not that spell... Gods, please...”

Geralt chuckled. “I didn’t know you hated it that much.”

“I saw things that day I didn’t want to see.” He raised his head, grimacing. “I normally wouldn’t complain but there was a question of consent.”

“Hm.”

“Exactly, you were disturbed by it too, _and_ you had that stupid apple juice in your hand.”

Ciri raised an eyebrow. “Yen hasn’t told me the whole story...”

“And we’re not telling it,” Jaskier said quickly. “You’re sixteen, you’re still a child.”

“So, is that a no to going to Yen?”

Jaskier looked to Geralt, and he stared back, for a long moment. He twisted his lips and Geralt raised his eyebrows, to which Jaskier opened his mouth, narrowing his eyes. Absolutely not.

“She could...” Geralt suggested.

“No.”

“What is wrong with Triss?”

“Well, I prefer Yen so.”

“Oh, for gods–” Ciri rolled her eyes. “Let’s just wait till winter then, since you seem to be so conflicted.”

“Oh, I know!” Jaskier exclaimed. “There’s Stregobor. If we take control of him for a while...”

Geralt inhaled in such a frustrated way, giving Jaskier such a _look_. “I never should have told you that.”

“But you _did_. And honestly, it would be a twisted sense of justice.” He smirked, eyes growing slightly dark. “He would never have to know.”

“Fine then.” Geralt looked to Ciri. “We’ll be heading to Vizima tomorrow, last I heard he was there.”

Ciri laughed. “I wouldn’t mind taking advantage of Stregobor. He’s a bitch.”

“Indeed. The biggest bitch bastard there is,” Jaskier said. He grinned wide. “Now, who would like to hear a song?”

“Oh, gods, it’s not–” Geralt began to say, but stopped as he saw Jaskier’s wide grin.

“Yes, yes, you’re right, I’ll sing ‘A Dick in Robes’ first.”

Ciri sat at the middle of her bed, cross-legged, looking so young, so excited. She did love his songs, and this was one she hadn’t heard before. He grabbed his lute from the corner of the room and sat upon the table opposite the beds.

“There was once a Dick in robes...” he began to sing, kicking up the jolly tune that was far too cheery for the true story of the song. There was a hint of how much Jaskier wished him to be dead, along with the awful acts he had committed. But still, it was jolly. On the same level as Fishmonger’s Daughter.

“And now, now the dick has sealed his fate!” Jaskier finished off with flourish, grinning brightly. Ciri applauded, a large smile plastered upon her face. Meanwhile, Geralt was smiling slightly, lightly clapping, as if he had a love hate relationship with the song (he did).

For the memories, Jaskier played Toss A Coin, followed by His Bright Kiss, finishing off his nightly performance with Sweetest Smile.

All were a different sort of love song about Geralt. Even though Toss A Coin was a story, it had been a devotion neither of them had known at the time.

Jaskier stood and bowed. He carefully put his lute away and set the wine on the table. “Who would like some wine before bed?”

Ciri was at his side at an instant. “Is that Est Est?”

“It is.”

“I’ll have some.”

Jaskier uncorked the bottle, smiling as Geralt reached his side, slinging an arm around his waist. He smiled as he passed the bottle to Ciri, catching Jaskier’s eyesight.

“Now who’s the bad influence?” Geralt said. They too often quipped about which of them was teaching Ciri all the bad habits. Most of the time, Jaskier persisted it wasn’t him.

“Har, har.” Jaskier turned in his hold, curling his hands around his shoulders. “We all know we’re not the bad influences.”

“No, I’m the bad influence,” Ciri said, bottle in her hands, wine on her lips. She grinned as they both stared at her. “If you’re going to be lovey dovey, do it when I’m not here.”

Jaskier laughed, stepping closer to Geralt. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

She averted her eyes, placing the wine down. “Ugh, yes. It really does.”

Jaskier smirked and pecked Geralt on the lips, and Geralt pulled him in closer, kissing him sweetly.

The sudden sound of covers rustling was heard and Jaskier laughed into the kiss, pulling away. Geralt grinned, tossing a look over his shoulder as Ciri was in bed, turned away from them.

“Oh, is it _that_ bad?” Jaskier asked.

“Yes!” she half shouted back. “My adoptive fathers are kissing.”

They both laughed and headed to bed themselves, stripping each other of their armour first, revealing their soft clothes. They slipped under the covers, curled around each other. Jaskier always loved this, the peace, the special quiet just before sleep, when the night was with them, bright and dark.

“My love,” Jaskier whispered into Geralt’s ear, “have I ever told you how much I love our family?”

“Hmm. Multiple times.”

“And do you know that I love our life, the one we’ve made for ourselves?”

“I know it.”

“And did it ever cross my lips how much I love you?”

Geralt turned, facing Jaskier, their noses close, nearly touching. “Every day, not a single one goes by without you mentioning it. And do you know what I always say back?” He settled his hand on his hip, smiling.

Jaskier beamed. “That you love me too, with all your heart.”

“Forever and always,” they said at once. Joy flowed around, settling between them, and they were drawing one another in, kissing gently and sweetly, quietly. And he loved this most of all, Geralt’s lips upon his own, perfect every time.

Quite suddenly, something hit them both and they jolted apart, laughing as a pillow slid off their bodies, landing heavily on the floor. Jaskier threw a glance Ciri’s way, laughing more at the sight of her leaning on her arm, pillow missing, eyes narrowed.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Never,” Geralt said, pulling back from Jaskier to grab the pillow, throwing it back.

Ciri caught it and placed it back beneath her head. “I regret asking to save money now.”

“That was your own downfall, dearie,” Jaskier said with a smile.

She grumbled and rested back down, curling the pillow around her ears. They both laughed again and settled, tangling together. Geralt rested his forehead upon Jaskier’s, a small breath of laughter was still stuck in his throat.

“Shall we rest now?” Geralt asked.

“Let’s, before she kills us.”

“And I will,” she called out.

Jaskier grinned, cupping Geralt’s jaw. “I love you.”

Geralt joyfully huffed remnants of laughter. “And I love you.”

He closed his eyes, feeling so content, in love, and happy with his life. It had been an entire decade since they had confessed their love, and all that time had brought them so close together. It was almost impossible not to kiss him every minute of the day, but Ciri would surely be the master of their demise if they did so.

They did it in front of her to tease her, maybe to make her a little uncomfortable too. But one day, she would know what it was like to be this in love. And if she had children, then she would tease them too. It was an age old tradition after all.

Life was better than good, it was amazing and beautiful and perfect... And Jaskier could never be gladder for the fact he had lost his memories, otherwise they never would have been brought together in the way they had been. Their story was set in its beginning, and Jaskier was eternally wondering what would be next for them. For now, they had Ciri, and they had their friendship with many, with Yen acting as another parent too (even if she could get tired from training too harshly).

Jaskier was satisfied, comfortable, and had everything he’d ever been missing.

He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, tangled with his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay, thank you so much for reading!! I'd love to hear your thoughts :D!! 
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr ^.^!](https://kateis-cakeis.tumblr.com/)


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